


i fall to pieces (when i'm with you)

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Sansa Stark, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Past Abuse, Psychological Trauma, R Plus L Equals J, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 68,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: "Go North. Only North. Jon is Lord Commander at the Castle Black. He'll help you."He'd had good intentions, this broken shadow of a man who used to be Theon, and he couldn't have known.Sansa finds a Lord Commander at Castle Black. He has steel-grey eyes, her father's eyes, and a dark beard framing a strong jaw, and he looks and sounds and moves like Jon...But he's not Jon.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 479
Kudos: 1414





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This just poured out of me because I was in the mood for some dark smut, but then all this exposition happened🤷🏼♀️ Dark Jon is really my vibe recently, so wanted to try this out. These kids are both fucked up, guys. No meek Sansa here. No honourable Jon here...

_What's North of North?_ Sansa would ask her father when she was little.  
  


She knew what was South. Kings Landing was South. Splendid feasts and jousts where she would one day sit with her golden prince by her side, smelling roasting meats, feeling the love of her people, hearing the sound of laughter and the blare of herald's trumpets. It was unfamiliar to her, a faraway place buried in the recesses of her mind, a dream she couldn't quite get to. She would get there one day, though, she promised herself, and her children would rule from Winterfell to the mountains of Dorne.

  
Winterfell was the heart of the North, all the songs said so, so what was North of that? She knew _something_ lurked beyond her home. When she was only three and ten, she'd snuck upstairs and watched out the window as father glumly pulled his furs around his shoulders and beckoned for Robb, Jon and Bran - _Bran,_ with only ten namedays! - to join him in executing a "deserter".  
  


 _A deserter of what?_ she'd asked, but her father shook his head and told her not to worry, and her mother wouldn't tell her anything at all.  
  


As the years went by, growing up within the loving walls of Winterfell, Sansa grew more curious. Then, with it beaten out of her in a South that was nothing like her dreams, a golden prince who was cruel, and no love, and no friends, and a climate so hot it suffocated her, she grew less curious. Then, dragged back up North like some sort of ragdoll, pushed and pulled in every direction but the one she wanted to go in, she grew to feel nothing at all. A numb, dull ache that was worse than pain.  
  


Now, sluggishly walking beside the man who used to be Theon, she wishes for nothing. It's a strange thing, to wish for nothing. To feel nothing. She simply glances down as she walks, watching her bare, aching feet stain the snow with streaks of crimson. She's mesmerised by it, by the blood on the ground, used as she is to seeing it on her own skin, oozing from cuts left by Ramsay's blade, both when her screams still echo fresh in her mind and when she accidentally moves too quick and opens an old wound.  
  


 _Done now,_ she reminds herself. Gone. Escaped. Even as his sinister howls of laughter still ring clear. She has the strange urge to scream in response. As she soldiers on, watching her broken feet again, she holds her hands in-front of her, also bloody and trembling from more than just the cold. She imagines she can reach into her head, yank the memories out, leave them to bleed out on the snow too. Her fingers itch.  
  


She can feel the burn of Theon's - _Reek's -_ eyes on her and she doesn't turn to look at him.  
  


 _Fuck you,_ the thought flies through her fractured mind with an almost hysterical edge, _I don't want your concern.  
  
_

She wants nothing from him. She wants nothing from anyone.  
  


So when they crouch down by a broken tree trunk and he breathes, " _go North. Only North. Jon is Lord Commander at the Castle Black. He'll help you",_ like he's some sort of hero from a song, she almost laughs in his face.

  
She doesn't laugh. She doesn't show much of anything on her face. She just nods and says she'll go because _really,_ what else can she say? There is nothing left for her here, nothing left for her anywhere.

  
She goes North of North.  
  
  
She goes to seek out what her father wouldn't show her. He tried so hard to shelter her from horrors, from the realities of the world, she wonders what he would think, what he would say, if he could see her now.

  
But then --

 _  
He's dead,_ she thinks flatly, _it doesn't matter.  
  
_

Lady Brienne is by her side this time. She finds her more useful than Theon - _Reek -_ and her mind flits to her lost half brother.  
  


 _Where has he been? Does he know about our family, that the Boltons hold Winterfell? Why has he never come for me?_ _Does he still look like Father and love Arya best?_ _Has he bled? Has he suffered like I have suffered?_

  
It's a brief flicker of something she remembers to be curiosity, a flame reignited upon burning coal, and she's quick to smother it.

* * *

After nigh on a moon of riding, of mud, blood, sweat and dirt, Sansa breaches the walls of Castle Black.  
  


It's eerily quiet, the silence punctuated by the creak of the iron and wood and the sound of her horse's tired footsteps. Brienne trots quietly behind her, the calm to her storm, and the gates close with a strange sense of finality.  
  


As she dismounts her horse and walks through the courtyard, the cold gravel crunching under her feet, she almost expects Jon to greet her. She brushes off that silly thought. He doesn't even know she's coming.  
  


But someone does.  
  


A woman with striking red hair walks down the balcony's steps towards her, her hands clasped casually behind her back. Even with the mud and dirt caking Sansa's hair, clotting the thick auburn mass, this woman's hair is darker and Sansa's suddenly struck by a childish, _strange_ sense of delight that her shade is more pleasant. She shakes it off, irritated by glimpse of the vain little girl she used to be, rising to the surface.  
  


The woman comes to stand in-front of her, stopping a hair's breadth away, and she tips her head to the side.  
  


"Who are you?" Sansa asks rudely.  
  


The woman merely smiles, something sharp and snake-like.  
  


"We should bathe you," she says strangely, "he won't want to see you like this."  
  


Sansa scoffs, half confused, half outraged.  
  


"Who? Jon? He won't care."  
  


She wants to see him. She's suddenly struck by this intense, desperate, almost _hysterical_ need to see him. To hold on to him, to claw her nails in his skin, to tug at his black curls. They had never been close, not as children, not as teenagers. But there are so few Starks left, bones buried in a crypt in a place she can no longer call home, or in a cold river down South, or nowhere at all, and Jon, half-a-Stark though he is, will have to do.  
  


"Take me to him," she demands, " _now._ "  
  


"He will help you, little lost girl," she murmurs cryptically, raising a palm. Sansa instinctively flinches and hates herself for doing so, and when the woman curls a strand of her hair around her finger, Sansa bats her hand away almost viciously.  
  


"I am not lost," she snarls, and feels Brienne tense behind her, still unsure how to react to her foul moods, "and I am not a little girl. Not anymore. How can I be lost when I just left the only place I called home and found my way here?"  
  


She's tired of this game and she just wants to sleep and she _hates_ this woman. She wants to rip her red hair out from the root, scream and claw and dig her mud-streaked nails into her eye sockets. The violent images flicker faster until all she can see is red and she screws her eyes shut.  
  


The woman looks calm, completely undeterred, and she gently moves her hands behind her back again.  
  


"He will help you, lost girl," she merely repeats, "he will bring you home."  
  


Sansa grits her teeth, her temper flaring.  
  


"I just _said_ I left my home. Are you deaf or stupid?"  
  


The woman smiles again, curling her cherry red lips, and there's a flash of white teeth.  
  


"The Lord Commander is not here."  
  


Sansa's stomach churns, dread mixing with disappointment.  
  


"Where is he?"  
  


"Ventured out to one of the Northern towns," she brings her hand up again - this time, Sansa doesn't flinch - and her nose crinkles in distaste at the dirt lodged under her own nail, "as he is inclined to do."  
  


Sansa huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, and she beckons Brienne closer.  
  


"We will rest and wait for him," she declares, only now noticing the slack jawed expressions of the men around her. She bristles under their gaze, suspicious as she is of men and their desires, and she knows what they say of the men at Castle Black. Rapers, murderers, devoid of female attention or affection. Other than this woman, strange as she is, and Brienne, she'll be the only woman at Castle Black. It's a fact that doesn't sit well with her - though she will persevere.   
  


"You will be waiting quite some time," the woman's cryptic voice calls out after her as she turns and begins to walk up the courtyard steps.  
  


Sansa pauses, turning her head to find the woman's blank expression.  
  
  
She doesn't quite understand her next words, but a chill passes through her bones all the same.  
  


"As I said, Jon Snow is not here."

* * *

Sansa falls asleep quickly, but it is a fitful and restless sleep.  
  


Like pieces of glass in her head, painful memories race through her aching mind and she's powerless to stop them. She writhes on the tiny cot, visions searing behind her tightly screwed eyes. _Joffrey, Cersei, Littlefinger, Ramsay_... she wills herself awake, feels she may vomit otherwise, but she's drowning. She can't wake up; she can't reach the surface.  
  


Suddenly she doesn't have to because someone is grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her.  
  


A scream jolts in her throat, her eyes flying open. She sits up, her hand at her neck, feeling her heart beat wildly under her palm.  
  


A boy - younger than Bran, barely older than Rickon - stares down at her.  
  


"Who are you?" she snaps at him like she did the Red Woman, half angry at being snuck up on, half relieved at being woken from her nightmare.  
  


The young boy shivers, terror flashing through his eyes. She's seen it in the mirror enough times to recognise it.  
  


"You have to leave," he bites out in response, his voice cracking.  
  


She quirks a brow, sitting up slightly in the rickety cot. Her eyes dart around the room, bare and minimal. She doesn't know who it belongs to, if it belongs to anyone, and she decides it will be hers. Then she decides she's annoyed this boy has breached it, annoyed Brienne has let him. She's supposed to be guarding her, watching her. With a sigh, Sansa wonders if _everyone_ is useless.  
  


"Your lady friend didn't notice me," he croaks out like he's reading her mind, "I'm small, and I know the castle's hidden passageways."  
  


"Fascinating," Sansa's voice is dry, cutting, "again - who are you?"  
  


The boy shakes his head, his tearful face half bathed in moonlight from the window, and she notices that he's shaking.  
  


"It doesn't matter," he whispers fearfully, " _please -_ you have to go. You're not safe here."  
  


She quirks a brow, tipping her head to the howling wind outside. The North is a perilous place indeed, the true North even more so, and she scarcely knows how she survived the journey in the first place.  
  


"I'm safer out _there_ , am I?"  
  


The boy's expression is deadly serious when he says, "yes."  
  


Sansa rolls her eyes.  
  


"Go away," she mutters, gesturing with her hands and flicking her fingers, "you are starting to annoy me."  
  


"I'm trying to _save_ you!" the boy's voice raises almost hysterically and his tiny hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Sansa's brows furrow. "This is a dark place. You have to run."  
  


"I know something of dark places," she says quietly, her patience wearing thin, "I will not go back. I am the Lord Commander's sister. He will keep me safe."  
  


 _You will never be safe,_ Ramsay's sinister voice echoes in her mind, _you will never be free. E_ _ven if you somehow find a way to escape me, dear wife..._ _I will be with you always.  
  
_

At the mention of Jon, the boy seems to freeze.  
  


"He won't," he whimpers pitifully, "he's a monster."  
  


 _This_ captures Sansa's attention.  
  


"Jon?" she blinks for a moment, before a hysterical laugh bubbles up from the back of her throat, " _Jon?_ he couldn't harm a fly!"  
  


She remembers the boy she grew up with then. So sullen and brooding, looking like a tortured pup every time Mother sent him to the back of the dining hall, or Theon and Robb laughed at him for wanting to play Lord of Winterfell, or she reprimanded him for calling her sister, not half-sister.  
  


But _oh -_ she remembers the way he smiled at Arya, the way it lit up his whole face. She remembers how fiercely he loved Robb, how he idolised father, how he read to Bran until his voice was hoarse and carried Rickon through the courtyard on his shoulders. She remembers how he was always, _always_ kind to her - no matter how hard she tried to push him away.

  
"He harms more than that," the boy is whispering. Sansa finds herself morbidly fascinated by the way moonlight shines on his flushed cheeks, making the tear-tracks look like glittering jewels, "he's leaving me alive, leaving me for last. He wants me to see the others die. He said he wants me to _know._ "

  
Sansa blinks for a moment before sighing, folding her hands in her lap.

  
"Alright," she says, conceding for a moment, "and why would he do that?"

  
The boy shifts on his feet, discomfort flashing across his features.

  
"I killed his lover."

  
Sansa blinks again before narrowing her eyes. She can't imagine her sullen, honourable brother with a lover. She's certain he wouldn't know what to do, where to put it. She almost smirks at the thought.

  
She shrugs, seemingly unimpressed with this answer.

  
"Well, that wasn't very nice, was it?"

  
"She was a wildling," the boy fires back like that's justification enough, the first flash of something other than fear - _righteousness, indignation_ \- appearing on his face.

 _  
Interesting,_ Sansa thinks, and then she decides to tug on his strings.

  
"So?"

  
"She killed my family!" he splutters, red cheeked and angry.

  
She cocks a brow, tipping her head to the side. "So it was justice then?"

  
"Yes!" he spits before sighing in exasperation, "we don't have time for this. It's more than that. We _did_ more than that. Please, you have to go - we don't have time. He'll be back soon - "

  
"What did you do?" Sansa asks, now throughly intrigued, "how else did you hurt him?"

  
"We did more than hurt him, we - "

  
He doesn't finish his sentence.

  
Another voice - a low, rumbling Northern brogue - replaces his and Sansa's gaze flies to the now open door.

  
"Olly."

  
It's a simple word - the boy's name, she assumes - and _there he is,_ her brother, looking cool and calm and stronger than when she'd left him.

  
The boy named Olly shivers, a broken sob welling in his throat. Sansa frowns again.

_  
Interesting, indeed._

  
"That's quite enough, don't you think?" Jon murmurs, and it's not a question. He's leaning against the doorframe and Sansa could have _sworn_ she'd locked it, but Olly got in too, so she shakes that thought off.

  
Olly rushes to the door, his movements shaky, untrusting and unsure. Sansa knows what that looks like, too.

  
When he gets there, he looks up at Jon, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  
Jon stares down at him, blank faced and uncaring.

  
Silence stretches out between them, tense and ugly.

  
"Go on," Jon says eventually and his voice is darker than she remembers, all low Northern gruff, "run along now."

  
Run he does, and then Jon's dragging his attention back to Sansa.

  
"Hello, sister."

  
He murmurs and she freezes, inexplicably unable to breathe.

  
She doesn't know much anymore, but she knows the Red Woman was right.

  
This is not her brother.


	2. Chapter 2

Like some sort of strange omen, thunder crashes in the distance, lightning strikes painting the sky an unseemly yellow.

Sansa can see it through the door he hasn't closed. She almost rolls her eyes, finding the whole thing very melancholy indeed, very on the nose.

She forces herself not to shrink under his dark gaze, inquisitive and searching for something she can't name. With an ache in her chest, she thinks he looks so different, and yet so much the same. She can't quite make sense of the thought. He's older, and taller, and he looks like a Stark. His dark curls are tied back in a leather band, a style she admits suits him, and he looks so much like Father, it makes her ache. His beard is still neatly trimmed and his clothes are still black and there's still no smile on his face, but his eyes are different.

When they were children, when she was sure Mother couldn't hear, old Nan would say that Jon had kind eyes.

Even when he was upset, or angry, or jealous, his eyes were still kind. He never loved her like he loved Arya. The distance between them had been so vast it could barely be called dislike, merely indifference, but Sansa _always_ felt safe in his presence. Jon was Jon. He was good, and honourable, and fair. While Robb reprimanded her for being cruel to Arya, not sticking up for her when Jeyne Poole called her horse-face, Jon would try to see her side. He would reprimand her too, but when she cried and stomped her feet in frustration, he would place a gentle hand on her arm and patiently listen to her and just like that, she would calm.

That was the thing with Jon. He carried that energy with him everywhere.

It's only now that she realises she's missed it at all.

She misses it still - because _this_ Jon doesn't make her feel calm at all. He doesn't make her feel safe.

His face is still handsome, his features are still long and dark and melancholy like a Stark, but his _eyes._ They're ice. Any kindness, any warmth, has long been burned out of them. He won't break their gaze and she feels a shudder pass through her. She looks away.

"I thought you might be dead," he says casually, like he's talking about the weather.

"Been close a few times."

Her answer seems to please him because he smiles. She thinks it doesn't suit him. It's too cruel, too sinister, and it doesn't reach those eyes.

"Arya?" he asks.

His concern for her sister stirs something hot inside her, a sensation she refuses to recognise as jealousy rearing its ugly head. She thinks she wears her mask well, but he must notice the slight slip because his eyebrow quirks.

"I haven't seen her. She disappeared when Father was killed. I have been in Winterfell."

If the fact that Arya is lost, the reminder that Father is dead, moves him in any way, it doesn't show.

"And yet, now you are here."

He doesn't sound particularly pleased about it. Doesn't sound angry either.

"I escaped."

"From?"

"Does it matter?" she snaps and _there it is_ , that subtle cock of his brow again, and _there they are,_ the brother and sister from all those years ago, with so much distance between them, "I assumed I'd be welcome under your protection, no questions asked. You're my _brother._ "

He tips his head to the side, taking a step towards her.

"Am I, now?"

The question confuses her and she feels too hot, like she's on fire, even though the door is still open and the cold night chill crawls over her skin.

"What do you mean?"

"You called me half-brother since you were old enough to know what bastard meant."

She bristles at that, too defensive to feel guilty.

"That was a lifetime ago," she insists, "do you want me to apologise?"

"Aye, what if I do?" he asks, "what if I want you to beg?"

Sansa's mouth runs dry and she swallows past the sudden lump in her throat, her eyes narrowing. 

"This isn't like you. Could you have changed so much?"

For the first time, she bothers to see the signs in-front of her, clear as day since she arrived. The way the courtyard seemed to hum with nervous energy. The Red Woman's cryptic warning that the Lord Commander no longer resided here. Olly's words; _he's a monster..._

He doesn't answer her question. He merely steps forward again, so close she can feel him now, can see the thin scar over his eye and the curious flecks of violet in them.

"What if I want you on your knees?"

Her gaze snaps to his, her temper flaring.

"You're scaring me."

His mouth twitches under his beard. He doesn't believe her.

"Seems to me you don't need my protection," he tips his head to the side again, steel-grey eyes flickering over her, "you found your way here, after-all."

The words are complimentary, but they feel like anything but. He doesn't sound impressed. He doesn't sound happy or relieved or anything at all. His voice is blank and even, unaffected. Sansa shuffles on her feet; she doesn't know what to say.

On the journey here, she had allowed her mind to wander. She had thought about what she would say, what she would do, when she saw him again. She _had_ imagined herself apologising, allowed herself to admit how awful she had been to him. But she imagined all that unpleasantness between them as children would fade away, because they were _family,_ and they only had each other left. She imagined she would launch herself into his arms and he would hold her, the way Robb used to hold her and the way he used to hold Arya. They would stay up for hours, talking about the awful pies Old Nan used to make and drinking ale even worse. It wouldn't matter that she hadn't really loved him before, that she barely thought of him at all, it would just be like second nature. They would know how to talk to each other, how to hold each other, how to be around each other.

And yet, standing here now, he's never felt further away.

"I _do_ need your protection," she decides to concede, just a bit, to give him a tiny part of herself after all these years, "I need you."

She remembers the doleful way he used to look at her and her Mother, so she expects him to lap it up, like a dog desperate for any scraps of her attention.

He doesn't.

"You need me," he repeats it, the words laced with something akin to amusement, and he begins to circle her.

She grabs his arm to stop him, dizzy with it.

"And _you_ need _me,_ " she insists before drawing her hand back like he's burned her. Her blood stirs curiously, her pulse pounding too loud in her ears. He's so hot, practically burning up, but everyone knows Northmen are made of ice. It's said that they melt when they pass the Twins, and Jon had never been an exception, but now... he feels more dragon than wolf. "We're _family,_ Jon."

He stares at her for a moment, still and calm in-front of her, and she's suddenly overcome by this desperate, clawing desire to have the old Jon back.

She wants to hit him. She wants to strike him and shake him and break him like he's breaking her. She wants to open him up and crawl inside him and search for any scraps of the boy he used to be. She knew that boy. _She could control that boy,_ the bizarre thought flies through her mind before she can stop it.

She's lived without control for so long, despaired as she watched it slipped through her fingers. She refuses to be powerless again, refuses to bend, to break. She's tired of being a victim.

"What happened to you?" she asks, quietly, finally.

He tips his chin slightly, his jaw clenched in a tight, fine line.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, sister," he says smoothly, dismissively, then he reaches out and twirls a strand of her hair around his finger. To her surprise, she doesn't flinch, doesn't bat his hand away, the way she did with the Red Woman down in the courtyard. She just watches him watch her, frozen in place, feeling eerily calm where she should feel panicked. He glances down at her with coal-black eyes and she aches, burns, _blazes_ under it. 

"I can stay?"

He lets go of her hair and smiles and, for a moment, he almost looks kind. He is uncaring, unbothered, by the thick mud caking it, the fact that she still hasn't bathed, and she almost wants to find the Red Woman to laugh in her face.

"Of course, Sansa," it's the first time he's said her name and his tongue wraps around it almost sinfully, hurling it at her like a weapon, "you're safe."

She feels anything but.

* * *

The next morning dawns surprisingly sunny and warm, unseasonably so for the North in winter.

Part of her wants to lock herself in her tiny room, devoid of that warmth, of company and contact. But the voices start when she's alone, the memories come hard and fast, searing painfully behind her eyelids, and she finds it difficult to breathe in the silence.

She decides to explore the castle, tells Brienne she will be fine, snaps at her and doesn't feel guilty about it when the woman protests.

She doesn't feel guilty about much anymore. 

She finds Jon's chambers and orders to be let in.

"The Lord Commander has said no visitors," one of the guards says, "he doesn't wish to see anyone."

"He'll wish to see me."

"Oh yeah?" the guard looks at the other with a disbelieving chuckle, "and what makes _you_ so special?"

She rolls her eyes to the sky, uninterested in this back and forth. She's had four hours of sleep, enough to make her feel refreshed because it's four more than she usually gets, and she's bathed now, and she wants to see Jon. She wants - _needs -_ to know what's gotten into him; she gave up too easily last night.

"I'm Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

"And I'm Bran the Builder!" the tall, sinewy one chortles.

"And I'm Durran Godsgrief!" the other one, a burly ginger with a huge beard joins in.

"No, that's stupid. I really am Sansa Stark."

"I'm sure you are, princess," one of them gives a dramatic bow, "but that doesn't mean shit here. The Commander gave strict orders not to be disturbed. Now fuck off."

She narrows her eyes, fighting back a wince at the venom in his tone. As she stands there, deliberating, the first sparks of a plan flash through her mind. She nods, pretending to huff, and just as she turns, she quickly whips back and darts for the handle of the door. They're strong, but she's quicker, and arrogance and surprise makes them slower still. Before they can open their mouths to release more than an outraged shout, she's opened the door and flung herself inside.

Through the ruckus - her flinging the door open, the clash of wood against wood, the guards babbling apologies and justifications - she sees only Jon.

He's standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed. His breeches hang on his hips, low and unlaced, and his hair is loose and wild like when they were children and his chest is bare. He turns slowly, his brow arched. 

Sansa's mouth runs dry, painfully aware that she hadn't _exactly_ thought this through. She's also aware of a strange liquid heat in the pool of her belly at the sight of him in this state of undress, and she pushes the sensation down. She watches his fingers dance along the laces of his breeches, casually tying them as she stares, and her mouth grows drier still.

"I'm sorry, my Lord!" the tall one - _Bran the Builder,_ Sansa thinks sarcastically - rants, his voice scratchy and high, "we told her you weren't to be disturbed, but she barged past us!"

Jon turns until his body is positioned fully in-front of her, the flickering candles beside him bathing him in soft light. The pit of Sansa's stomach drops out, an ache pulling in her chest, when she sees his torso.

_He's more scarred than I am,_ she thinks mournfully.

_Has he bled?_ she remembers the thoughts that had raced through her mind that day she watched her blood soak crimson droplets into the snow, _has he suffered like I have suffered?_

She has her answer now, as her eyes flit over the crescent-shaped scars on his chest, so dark they're almost purple, and she wishes she didn't.

His brow is still arched as he quietly picks up a dark tunic, holding it in his hand. He's unashamed of his nakedness, of his scars, and if she didn't know any better, she'd swear he was _inviting_ her to look. As if she could tear her eyes away. They're disgusted, devastated, enthralled, _fascinated -_ mostly by the scar directly above his heart, angry and gouged deep into his skin.

_How did he survive that?_ she thinks, awed.

"Overpowered you, did she?"

Jon's voice is mocking, detached, as he addresses the guards. He doesn't sound particularly angry, but they're clearly afraid nonetheless, and he pulls the tunic over his head. A strange surge of disappointment overcomes her as soon as he's covered.

He turns to her then, clasping his hands behind his back.

"You must tell me what they were feeding you in Winterfell."

He's joking, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and Sansa thinks it doesn't suit him. His smile makes him look kind again, gentle, and she gets the feeling he's no longer anything of the sort. She tries to stand tall, straightening her back.

She also gets the feeling he smells weakness like blood in the water.

The guards are still shuffling on their feet, flanked either side of her, and Jon drags his attention to them.

"You may leave."

They're out the door as soon as the words leave his mouth, but they leave their fear behind.

She takes a step towards him, pulled like a dark magnet into his orbit.

It's silent for a moment as he waits for her to come to him, talk to him.

"Your scars..." she cuts to the chase, "you didn't have them before."

He tips his head to the side, expression unreadable.

"No," he says simply, "I didn't."

She can tell he isn't going to give anymore, isn't going to budge, so she tries a different tack.

"You should get better guards."

"I should."

"You can borrow Brienne if you like."

His mouth twitches at that, a hint of amusement flashing across his dark features.

"Are you going to cause me trouble, Sansa?" he asks, quirking a brow.

She merely shrugs, unable to answer either way, because there's so much about herself that she doesn't understand anymore. It scares her, terrifies her. 

"Maybe," she answers. 

His gaze seems to flicker from her eyes to her mouth and back again.

"But you used to be such a good girl."

Something flares between her legs then, a sort of liquid heat, and that scares her even more.

"That was a lifetime ago," she says, her voice quiet, "and I'm surprised you even remember."

He clicks his tongue at that, seemingly conceding.

"Aye, we weren't close, were we?" he takes a step towards her, a wolf stalking its prey, "but we're family. Isn't that what you said?"

_Jon_ was family. The little boy who looked more like a Stark than she did, who journeyed North and never came home. This isn't Jon, and Sansa grieves for the quiet, gentle boy she knew.

But Mother, Father and Robb are dead, and Bran and Rickon and Arya are lost. The grief she feels for them is no longer overwhelming, turning from a searing pain to more of a dull ache, and whatever is left of Jon is all she has.

"What happened to you?" she asks again, stronger this time, as though if she keeps asking, he'll eventually answer, "how did you get those scars?"

He doesn't.

"Tell me, Jon," it's meant to be a command, but her voice trembles, "what _happened_ to you?"

He stares at her for a beat, his eyes narrowing.

"So demanding..." he teases, and then he's turning away from her again.

He's comfortable with silence; reticent, restrained. It's one thing about him that hasn't changed. Jon will confide what he wants to confide, completely in control, and she can tell this is a battle she won't win.

She resigns herself to the fact, taking a step back with a clench to her jaw.

If he won't tell her, she'll find someone who will.

* * *

She's met with resistance everywhere she turns.

She asks the stewards what they know of the Lord Commander, his history and the sort of man he is. The question plunges them all into silence and the more she pushes, the more they turn away from her. Some tell her she's treading dangerous water, some tell her not to probe, others won't speak to her at all. The Rangers, as a rule, are more confident, more brash, but they still turn cold as soon as their Commander's name is uttered.

She even seeks Olly out again, but his fear has turned hysteria into traumatised silence, and he runs when he sees her.

He's fled now, down the dark passageways he knows better than she does, and she rolls her eyes in frustration.

" _Gods,_ " she sighs, her shoulders slumping, and she thinks about running after him before she catches sight of Ser Davos and the wildling Tormund conversing in Great Hall.

She walks in, hearing her own footsteps echo on the cold stone, and their eyes snap to her.

"Little lost girl!" The wildling exclaims cheerily, beckoning for her to come closer.

Sansa rolls her eyes again but she can't find it in her to be annoyed at the moniker. He's been nothing but friendly to her since she arrived, a pleasant presence amongst the dread and fear.

Ser Davos, a different kind of friendly, but friendly nonetheless, gives her a tight smile and a simple nod of acknowledgement.

"I am not lost, Tormund," she says gently, leaning against the stone table, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tormund chuckles and his smile is infectious, dimpling his cheeks under his impressive beard.

"Even if you were, you would find your way," he reaches out and tugs at her hair then, "you're kissed by fire. Lucky."

"Is that so?"

"Aye, it is," he says with a shrug, crossing his own arms over his substantial chest.

"Maybe you'll answer my questions then," she tries that luck, arching a brow, "as no-one else will."

The wildling glances at Davos, an interested expression flashing over his features.

"What's plaguing you?"

"Jon," she answers immediately and doesn't miss how they tense, glancing at each other again.

Davos is the one to speak then.

"Maybe you shouldn't go looking for answers, Lady Stark," he says gently, his flea-bottom accent soft and kind, "you might not like what you find."

Sansa's lips twitch - _Lady Stark,_ it's been a while since she's been addressed as such - and a warm sensation seeps into the ever-present hole in her chest.

_I am a Stark,_ she thinks with a sense of pride, _I will always be a Stark._

"He's my brother, Ser Davos," she says, "I need to know what happened to him. He's so very different now."

"Aye, he is," Tormund murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically grave, "as are you, I imagine. Pretty kneelers like you are rarely found so close to the Wall. Perhaps you have a story to tell, too. Will you tell him?"

His tone is pointed, poignant, like he can see straight through her. She doesn't want to talk about what she's been through, what brought her here. She doesn't want to share with Jon. She gives him nothing, but wants his everything in return.

"I want to know," she insists stubbornly, "I deserve to know."

The men both arch their brows at that and, as though he were only testing her, Tormund is the one to concede.

"His men betrayed him."

"Tormund-" Davos bites out in a warning, his dark eyes widening.

"She's his _family_. Maybe she can help," the wildling's gaze remains resolute, unyielding, "I fought beside that man at Hardhome. I _bled_ for him. I never thought I'd break bread with a crow, and I don't trust the fuckers still, but I vouch for Jon Snow. He's young, but he knows how to fight. He knows how to lead. _You_ know what we're facing, Davos. You know what's coming for us and that he's the only one who can stop it. Not the free folk, not the crows, not all the fucking southern kings. _Him._ He's lost his way, but he needs us, and we need him, and _fuck it,_ I'm not giving up."

Sansa blinks, rendered speechless by his passion.

Davos briefly closes his eyes, running a hand over the top of his head for comfort.

"He won't be happy," he murmurs.

Tormund shrugs. "Then he can deal with me."

He's not scared of Jon, not like the others are, and beneath it all, Sansa can see he's in pain. He's mourning his friend.

"How did his men betray him?" she asks, wanting to get it out before he has the chance to change his mind, "did they hurt him?"

Tormund's mouth twitches but this smile is devoid of its characteristic mirth. It's different; bitter and melancholy and sad.

"They did more than that, little one," he says, and that angry, purple scar above her brother's heart suddenly sears behind her vision, "they killed him."


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa hovers outside Jon's solar door, staring at the cracks in the weathered wood. She lifts her hand, only to drop it again in painful indecision.

_They killed him,_ Tormund's gruff brogue echos in her ears. He hadn't been able to elaborate much, only that they'd called him _traitor,_ stuck their knives in his body and left him to bleed out on the cold, unforgiving snow.

She fights back a shudder, remembering Ramsay's blade, his cruel taunts, the pain he inflicted upon her body, night after night. He hadn't killed her, it had never gotten that far, but sometimes it felt like he had, and her chest aches for the pain Jon's been through.

She wants to comfort him, but she doesn't know how, and she wants to fight him as well. She's angry at him. She's angry he wouldn't tell her what happened, angry that he's changed so much and angry that he let himself get hurt in the first place. She blames him in a way that's completely irrational - senseless - because she's tired of losing everyone. It's selfish, but she's angry that he didn't keep himself safe, that the warmth inside him, that calm energy he always carried, has been burned out of him. She needed it.

A nagging voice inside her tells her that sympathy is for herself, not for him, because she'd wanted his aid and for that, he has to be whole.

She pushes that thought down, not wanting to believe it.

She doesn't understand the conflicting emotions rocketing through her body like hurricanes, like wildfire, and she still can't bring herself to knock.

"Come in," his velvet voice flows through the door, causing her to flinch and draw her hand back in surprise.

_How did he know I was here?_

She clears her throat and tries to imagine what she will say, what she will do, as she opens the door and walks inside, closing it with an audible click behind her.

He's sitting at his desk, leaning his elbows on the wood, his fingers tenting over his mouth. He's looking at her calmly, his expression completely unreadable. The same. Ghost lays curled at his feet, a loyal companion, the snorts from his nose casting billows of cloudy air across the stone floor. Seeing the wolf causes an ache in her chest, makes her think of Lady, makes her miss her family and her home back when it could still be called home.

She's suddenly painfully aware that Jon is watching her, waiting for her, and she bristles under his scrutiny.

"How can I help you, Sansa?" his voice is quiet, but steady. Full of authority.

His brow arches expectantly and she pushes down the fear she feels when she looks at him. His ice, his anger. No trace of the soft, gentle boy she grew up with. Time has turned him into someone she doesn't know.

She decides to get straight to the point, finding little point in weaving small-talk or pleasantries.

"Tormund told me what happened to you."

If he's surprised by this, it doesn't show, and his hands travel down from his mouth to the desk, fingers gently strumming the surface.

"Did he now?"

She takes a step forward, her own hands clasped in-front of her. She resists the urge to wring them, tightly entwining her fingers instead.

"Yes," she says, trying to keep her voice strong, but she gets the feeling he knew anyway.

His face is stone, giving nothing away, and she keeps her eyes on him.

"Sit down," he orders, gesturing to the seat on the other side of the desk, "please."

His tone is soft, husky and low, but it's a command all the same and she submits, telling herself it's merely because she feels awkward standing while he is sitting.

"I'm sure you have questions."

She can't help her incredulous scoff at that, her eyes widening before she realises he isn't joking. He doesn't joke. That's one thing that hasn't changed since they were children.

"About how you were _murdered_ and brought back to life?" she asks dryly, "yes, I have questions."

His mouth quirks under his beard, but it's not quite a smile.

"Ask me, then."

She arches a brow, staring at him across the desk, cautious and suspicious.

"You wouldn't answer me before. Why would you answer me now?"

"Maybe I won't."

She rolls her eyes, exasperated.

"Why must you talk in riddles?" her tone is harsh, lined with bitterness, "I'm tired of this. The Jon I knew was kind. He was warm. More than that, he was honest. Just be open with me."

He looks unmoved by her speech, the fingers of his left hand still strumming the surface of his desk. She winces. She clenches her jaw so tight her teeth hurt. She wants to break his fingers, bend them back, crush them, _anything_ to stop that incessant, _infuriating_ tapping.

Maybe he reads her too well. Maybe he remembers how she treated him the last time she saw him and maybe he can see behind her softness, how she changes her tone and appeals to familial bonds when it suits her. Maybe he knows her better than she gave him credit for, better than anyone left in the world, and that gives him leverage because she doesn't know him at all.

"Ask me what you want to ask, Sansa."

She sighs, sitting back in her seat slightly and giving it a try.

"Why did they do it?"

He tips his head to the side, gives a slight click of his tongue.

"That's not what you want to ask."

She narrows her eyes, burning, _blazing_ , under his dark gaze.

"Are you angry with them?"

He smiles then. A small, almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth.

"That's not it, either."

She briefly closes her eyes, damning him to all circles of hell, hating him for being so perceptive, for pushing too close. Her gut stirs, something hot and uncomfortable.

She takes a breath and _finally,_ asks what she wants to ask.

"When you died... what did you see? What else is there?"

He regards her quietly for a moment, that stony expression infuriatingly hard to read. But he's triumphant, has bent her to his will, and she's desperate to know. She wants to know if death could somehow be less painful than life, because nothing could possibly hurt more than what Ramsay did to her. How he's left her, broken and in pieces, jagged edges that don't quite fit together.

She's darkly curious, tired of feeling less than she would if she were dead.

Finally, he answers.

His low Northern brogue crawls like a blanket over her skin, somehow unsettling and comforting at the same time.

"I saw nothing," he says flatly, "there is nothing."

The answer disappoints her and she thinks he can tell.

"Tormund said the Red Woman - _Melisandre_ \- " for some reason, the name feels sour on her tongue, bitter like poison, " - saved you. Why?"

Jon shrugs, uncaring.

"I don't know. Maybe it was so you could come back to me, Sansa."

He's teasing her, mocking, his dark gaze flitting over her face. He's looking for signs of weakness, playing with her, testing her, like a child who picks at the wings of a fly for fun. But she's not his toy - she swore she'd never be any man's toy again - and her temper flares under her skin.

"Maybe," she plays along, narrowing her own eyes, "you admit you may need me, then?"

"I admit no such thing."

"I think you do," she pushes, "I think you're lost. Perhaps even more than I am. Tell me about Olly."

If he's surprised by the way she suddenly redirects the conversation, a push and pull, a struggle to get back on top, he doesn't show it.

" _Olly_ is responsible for my biggest scar, the one you couldn't take your eyes off. Right..." his voice is low, dangerous, as he trails his index finger across his chest, tracing a crescent shape over where his heart should be, "... _here."_

Her eyes flicker to his finger, something pulling in her chest. His movements are smooth, slow and almost seductive, and a sensation decidedly _not_ sisterly stirs between her legs.

_What's wrong with me?_ she thinks, disturbed at the thought.

"You punished the others?"

"I killed the others."

He says it so casually, so simply, Sansa's eyes widen for a beat.

"Why haven't you killed him?" she asks, fighting to keep her tone even, "he says he killed your lover. He says you left him for last on purpose. You wanted him to see."

"Aye," he concedes with a head tilt, "all true enough."

"I thought the men of the Night's Watch were supposed to be celibate."

He smiles, something dark and suggestive.

"They are," he hums, "but I wasn't."

"You broke your vow."

"You sound disappointed," his voice is lilting, a casual inflection, "did you think I was a virgin?"

She feels her cheeks burst into heat, colour creeping up her neck and tinting her skin. She places a back of her hand against her cheek and feels it burn.

"I didn't think about that at all," she grumbles, "it's hardly appropriate."

"You'll have to adjust your conception of what's _appropriate,_ Sansa," he dismisses, "after-all, where has being a good girl got you? Fled from your home and freezing amongst rapers and murderers and a brother you never loved."

She can't deny that she never loved him so she doesn't, dragging the topic back to Olly.

"You don't have to do this. You could forgive him, or at least stop dragging it out. You could let him go."

"I could," he concedes smoothly, "but I won't."

"There is no weakness in mercy," she insists, her brows pulling into a frown.

"Really?" he murmurs, cocking a brow as he slowly stands. He walks around the desk, trailing a finger along the surface as he goes, and when he stops in-front of her, he slightly tips his head to the side. As he rises, Ghost rises too, his shadow, and his paws pad along the floor, "you have been hurt, haven't you?"

She swallows, Joffrey's sneer, Ramsay's grin, searing behind her eyes. She hasn't told him about her past, about any of it, and it unnerves her to think he knows how she's suffered anyway. There's something different about him now, some sort of earthy, animal, almost supernatural sense of intuition, and she always feels two steps behind.

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Well..." he starts in a low, gruff tone, "if those who had hurt you were here right now... in this very room... if you had the chance to confront them and hold their fates in your hands, to _punish_ them... would you show mercy? Would you let them go with a little slap on the wrist and a promise that they'll do better next time?" his voice is sarcastic then, almost mocking, " _that..._ is how it's relevant, dear sister."

As he speaks, his fingers gently rake through Ghost's fur at his side, keeping the animal under control. Ghost leans into his touch, a happy growl in his throat, under his master's thumb. With his other hand, he reaches for her, gently cupping her face. She holds back a gasp and he runs his thumb over her bottom lip and his hands burn where they touch her skin. She shivers at the close proximity, eye-level with his belt and Longclaw at his hip, and the air feels white hot between them.

Her eyes flicker up to his and she stares at him under heavy lashes.

"You want justice?" he asks and her lip trembles under his thumb, "you want the ones who hurt you to bleed, to break?"

She swallows, eyelids flickering, and he drags his thumb to her chin, gently rubbing at her jaw, before it sweeps over her cheekbone.

"I don't know..."

He arches a brow pointedly.

"Yes, you do."

She closes her eyes, her jaw clenching tight. Vision sear behind her eyelids. Joffrey's gurgled screams as he chokes on his own blood, Ramsay's body broken and mangled, trampled by horses or fed to his own hounds, a knife swiping across Cersei's neck, red seeping through her fingers as she clutches at a throat gushing crimson. The visions flicker faster, the tension mounting, and she practically growls as she opens her eyes and glares at him.

"And what?" she spits sarcastically, "you're going to help me?"

His expression is steady, dark and serious.

"Aye, I will help you."

She's stunned at this, her head jerking back, out of his grasp. She doesn't want him to promise that, doesn't want to allow herself to even believe justice could be possible. She thinks he's playing with her, seeking to trap her within the dark intricate web he's weaving. If justice doesn't happen, it will destroy her, and it's exhausting being dragged from the highest highs to the lowest lows. She stands on shaky legs, running a tired hand over her face.

This isn't right. Him, her, how she's feeling, how he's _making_ her feel. She's not looking at him like a brother, a strange stirring in the pit of her stomach, a warmth between her thighs. It's something primal, something dark and vicious, and she wants to reach into her chest and claw it out of her.

She pushes him away from her, one hand on his chest, and he allows himself to be moved.

Some distance between them again, she asks, "what _happened_ to you?" one more time, her voice laced with disgust.

His jaw locks, something dark passing over his face. He looks angry. _Good,_ she thinks. Anger is good. Anger gives you a reason to wake up in the morning. Anger makes you move.

"The woman I loved died in my arms," he replies blankly, back to empty, "and then my brothers stabbed me to death."

She doesn't quite know what to say to that, the air between them sad and tense.

When he leaves, Ghost follows him.

* * *

_At least stop dragging it out,_ she'd said, and to her surprise, Olly is brought to the courtyard the very next morning.

The boy's face is resigned, his mouth pursed into a grim line. He walks slowly, his boots leaving heavy imprints on the pure white snow, and Sansa thinks that's all that will be left of him soon.

It doesn't make her happy, doesn't make her sad either, and she's unnerved by the very lack of emotion she feels.

Her eyes flit to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where Melisandre stands. There's a smile curling her red lips and her hands are clasped delicately in-front of her. Sansa narrows her eyes, thinking her suspicious, wondering why Jon keeps her around, wondering what he could need her for.

As Olly is brought to the wooden platform in-front of them, aided by the men either side of him giving him harsh shoves, Sansa turns her attention to Tormund next to her.

"How did he kill the others?"

She's not sure why she says it - is as surprised by the question as he is - and she turns her face to stare ahead as he speaks.

"He executed Marsh and Yarwick first," he says simply, "called them traitors and cut their heads straight off. Marsh took it like a man, but Yarwick begged for Jon to write to his mother with tales of an honourable death, fighting the _terrible, savage wildlings_."

His voice drips with sarcasm and he laughs, a full-bellied laugh, and Eddison Tollet on the other side of her shakes his head.

He probably thinks Tormund shouldn't be telling her all this, thinks it _inappropriate,_ and she turns her attention to him.

"You're lucky he likes you," Edd grumbles to Tormund, casting his eyes to the snow.

Tormund smirks, little flecks of snow peppering his ginger beard, and crosses his arms over his large chest.

"And did he?" Sansa asks.

"Did he what?"

"Send that letter to the boy's mother."

He turns his face to look at her, his expression deadpan.

"What do you think?"

The question hangs between them, heavy and answering itself, and she suppresses a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Were there others?" she asks, morbidly curious.

"Aye, there were others," Tormund says, "there was Thorne, the fucking cunt."

"Thorne?" Sansa asks, quirking a curious brow.

"He planned the whole thing," Sansa looks to Edd for validation of Tormund's words, but the young man is staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, as Olly is thrown onto the platform with ropes tied around his neck and wrists, "but Jon got his revenge."

"What did he do?"

"Tormund," Edd mutters the wildling's name, a clear warning, but Tormund is undeterred.

"Our little lost girl is strong. Kissed by fire," he says again, "she can handle it. He let him go."

He says it with a shrug and his voice is light. Sansa frowns, completely confused, and glares at him.

"What?"

"He told him his watch was ended, and he was exiled. He told him to run and never come back."

Sansa's surprised to find herself somewhat disappointed.

"And then he set Ghost on him."

Tormund finishes and Sansa's eyes widen, her gaze returning to the strung up Olly ahead.

"The little Crow's wolf brought that cunt back in pieces," he guffaws, finding the whole thing very amusing indeed.

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, her hands clasped in-front of her.

"It's time," Edd murmurs as Jon appears from his quarters, calmly walking down the steps. His eyes briefly connect with hers, empty and dark, before they drag to Olly and he comes to stand before him. Sansa fights back a shudder, clenching her jaw tight.

"If you have any last words..." Jon starts, his voice gruff and low, "...now is the time."

Olly is unwavering, pure hatred flashing through his eyes.

"I'm not sorry," he says. His voice shakes but he stays resolute, staring down at him.

Jon's scoffs softly, unsurprising and uncaring.

"Neither am I."

He turns his back then, unsheathing Longclaw. With one swing, the rope is cut and the platform pulled out from under Olly's feet. His strangled choke pierces the silence in the courtyard as he dies.

Sansa turns her face away, closing her eyes as the boy's body swings.

They fly open again when she feels a thumb and finger grab her chin. Jon's hands are icy from the cold, but his touch ignites something hot inside her, and he drags her gaze to his - forces her to look at him, to _see_ him.

"It was quick," he practically growls and he lets go of her face like she's burned him, "that... is how far my _mercy_ extends."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI Harry is just a random recruit of the Nights Watch that I've made up, not Harry Hardyng :) 
> 
> Trigger warning for mentions of rape and abuse. Read carefully my loves.

A strangled shout jolts Sansa awake, her instincts kicking in as she sits up in bed.

She's not sure what time it is, hasn't much care for it, but she knows it's sometime between when the sun rises and when it sets. _Day_ or _night_ has no significance to her. She sleeps when she can, an hour here, an hour there, whenever her mind stills enough to give her momentary peace. Those moments are few and far between, the trauma of everything she's been through constantly pressing at the front of her mind, and each one is a reprieve.

The shouting increases, another voice joining in, and then another, until she decides to see what the fuss is all about.

She slips her feet into the shoes by her bed, grabbing a robe that's too thin to throw over her shoulders. Then she's leaving her room and making her way to the courtyard, following the sounds of shouting and, if she's not mistaken, crying.

When she reaches the balcony, curling her hands around the wood and peering her head over the edge to see, she finds a dozen men or so crowded around a ranger, collapsed to his knees in the snow.

She watches tears stream down the man's face, flushed with desperation and the cold. The other men shove and push him, their laughs joining in with his sobs. Sansa almost wants to roll her eyes. She's a wolf, but she will never understand such pack mentality, and she knows her father would never approve of this.

"What's this, then?"

A smooth voice rings out from behind her.

She quirks a brow and turns her head at the sound, her eyes landing on Jon wearing a matching expression.

As she turns back to the scene, he comes to stand next to her, his gloved fingers curling over the balcony's edge. Inexplicably, Sansa's struck by the thought of what those strong hands would look like on her, touching her in the dark where no-one can see. She pushes down the strange thought, her blood stirring too hot in her veins.

"I don't know," she shrugs, "I was just about to go down and see."

He tips his head, eyes flittering over her thin shoes and thinner gown.

"By all means," he waves a dismissive hand in the direction of the drama, before adding, "take this first."

He shrugs the Lord Commander's cloak off his shoulders, gently wrapping it around her.

She freezes when he touches her, taken aback, and his fingers brush her shoulders as he pulls away. Her eyes are drawn to his generous mouth as he ties the cloak at her neck, his movements slow. His touch stirs something inside her to life, her skin on fire, vibrating with energy, and she's inexplicably disappointed when he draws back from her. She pulls the cloak tighter around her, all soft cotton and black fur, and it feels like he's given her something _more_ than a piece of clothing - something warm and powerful and significant.

"It's cold up here, even for a Northern girl," he explains with a small twitch of his mouth, "plus your gown leaves little to the imagination... and my men are not as honourable as I am."

It's not quite a joke, but it's not serious either, and she laughs a little breathlessly.

"What about you?" her eyes flicker over his black leather jerkin.

"I don't feel the cold much," he shrugs and they're silent for a moment as she wonders when that changed, wonders when he stopped feeling other things - like love and sadness and anger - and if he feels anything at all.

She walks a step behind him, the cold air lashing at her like a whip as they make their way down. The men's jaunts and cheers die in their throats when they notice them.

They separate for their Commander, letting him pass through in the gap they leave, and then he's standing in-front of the crying man and Sansa's standing right beside him. She recognises Edd and Samwell Tarly, a friendly man said to be Jon's best friend, but the rest are nameless faces.

"Harry," Jon utters what she assumes to be the boy's name, "I see you've found your way back."

His voice is low and gruff, lined with derision, and when the boy - _Harry -_ hangs his head and sobs, Sansa realises what this is. What is must be.

_A deserter._

"We found him, my Lord," one of the rangers says with a puffed out chest, sounding proud and a little put out that Jon would assume the deserter changed his mind and found his way back on his own. Clearly, Jon was being sarcastic in the first place, because he raises a brow at the pouting man.

"Aye, very clever of you," he says dryly, then turns his attention back to Harry, "and where have you been?"

Harry sits back on his haunches, looks up at Jon with big, mournful eyes.

"I made a mistake," he doesn't answer the question, "I'm sorry, Lord Commander. It won't happen again."

Jon's fingers twitch and flex before he clasps his hands behind his back.

"That's not what I asked."

Sansa watches the movement of Harry's throat as he swallows.

"I went to Mole's Town," he grumbles, his cheeks flushing a violent red that has nothing to do with the cold, "I'm sorry."

Sansa's brows draw together in confusion, unaware of the significance of the town, and her gaze shifts to Jon.

He looks unimpressed, his head tipped to the side and jaw set.

"You're an oathbreaker, then?"

The boy swallows again, eyes shining with frantic tears. His mouth opens and closes and Sansa thinks he looks like a fish - a caught fish, thrashing desperately with no way to remove the hook from its mouth.

"You laid with a whore," Jon says flatly - not a question, more of a clarification, and the boy cries again.

"Aye, I went to the brothel," he admits, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

He's blubbering now, placing his face in his hands as he shakes his head, and Sansa thinks it all very dramatic. After-all, she's sure this boy can't have been the first to do so, to slip away from his post and find comfort in a warm body for the night. As oaths go, this one seems fairly minor to break - especially when Jon was not celibate himself. He's been with a woman, had a woman - maybe more than one, she has no way of knowing - and he seems to be many things now, but she doesn't think him to be a hypocrite.

Despite this, he gives a tut, clicking his tongue slightly. He's silent for a moment, his dark eyes so inquisitive, Harry shrinks under them, and Sansa wonders what he's searching for.

"What are you not telling me?" he asks, narrowing his gaze, "there's something else."

Harry's silent save for his choked sobs and the slight shout he gives when another ranger digs his boot into his back.

"Come on," the man grits out, "tell the rest."

"I can't," Harry wails, digging his hands into the ground, his fingers raking through the snow.

He looks so disturbed, so distraught and broken, it makes Sansa uncomfortable. Jon is relentless, head tipped to the side as he waits patiently, calmly, like he could wait all day. After a minute of silence, she can't take it anymore and she places a gentle hand on Jon's arm.

He drags his attention to her, his curious eyes sweeping from her face to the hand on his arm and back again.

"Jon," she breathes, "is this necessary? He wasn't the first and I'm sure he won't be the last."

"Aye," he rumbles, "that is true. What _was_ it Aemon used to say, Sam?"

Sam looks flustered for a moment and Sansa can practically see the cogs in his head turning before he remembers.

"He used to say... _if we beheaded every ranger who lay with a girl, the Wall would be manned by headless men."_

Sansa shrugs, thinking it a fair assertion that reinforces her point, and crosses her arms over her chest.

"He didn't just _lay_ with her though, my Lord," another ranger blurts out and Sansa doesn't miss how Harry freezes in fear, "when we found the cunt and dragged him back, that woman was black and blue. Her clothes were ripped and she was crying. Said he forced himself on her, made her do unspeakable things."

Sansa freezes, her blood turning cold. Maybe Jon can tell, or he senses how the hand that's still on his arm suddenly trembles. He gently places his own over it, giving her fingers a soft squeeze.

The ranger's voice is lined with disgust as he clarifies, "he was paying for it and the fucker still raped her."

She flinches at the word, her jaw clenching tight, and she can't look at the boy anymore, sick to her stomach that she'd defended him.

"Can anyone else attest to this?" Jon asks, his voice lower and expression significantly darker.

Another ranger steps forward, a skinny boy with shaggy black hair.

"Aye, Lord Commander," he says nervously, "the girl was really upset. Her dress was torn to pieces and bruises already forming on her flesh."

"Her lip was split," another one joins in, sounding nauseated, "her hair was matted with blood. She was terrified, and he didn't care. He just laughed and said she deserved it. He said she didn't matter because she was a whore."

Sansa closes her eyes, thinking of the marks on her own body, the vicious words that were hurled at her like weapons, and when she opens them again, she focuses them on Harry.

"Why do you cry?" she asks, feeling the heat of the men's eyes on her, "are you sorry? or just sorry you got caught?"

His demeanour changes then, as though he's affronted she - a woman - would dare chastise him.

"I _paid her!_ " he exclaims, incredulous, "she can't just _change her mind!_ "

Jon arches a brow, his expression calm and unimpressed.

"Please, Lord Commander," he turns his attention back to him, scornfully ignoring Sansa, "I know I shouldn't have deserted my post, but don't let... _this_... colour your judgement. She's a whore! So I was a bit rough with her... who cares, it's her _job_! I have _always_ been loyal to you, shouldn't that matter? I was loyal to you when Thorne took over. I was never a traitor."

"You're a traitor to the watch," Jon dismisses, uncaring, "you broke your vows."

"So did you!" the boy shouts desperately, "you lay with a _wildling_!"

Jon's eyes flash dangerously and Sansa practically _feels_ the men around her bristle.

"I never raped her."

Harry snaps his mouth shut then, hanging his head, knowing he's lost.

"What do you think, sister?" Jon asks, turning to her, that brow still arched.

Sansa's eyes widen, "What?"

"You like to talk of mercy _,_ " he says, "so tell me, shall I be merciful?"

She stares at him, as stunned as the men around her.

"You want me to decide?" she repeats slowly, ignoring Harry's sudden frantic protestations.

"Aye," he murmurs, "I do."

"That's not fair!" Harry practically squeals, "why _her?_ Why should _she_ decide?"

Jon's top lip curls as he loses his patience and snaps his gaze to him, his temper flaring.

"Because I am your Lord and I command it."

His voice is low, gruff and dangerous, and a shudder passes through her.

Harry starts to beg her then, protestations of fake sympathy and false regret peppered in-between desperate pleas for mercy, promises that he'll never do it again.

But she thinks of all the women this has happened to, whores and noblewomen alike, and his pleas fall on death ears. She thinks of herself and all the women _like_ herself, the ones who have been scared, who have been cut, disfigured, torn open and burning with pain, not knowing if it was going to end or just get worse until they died. She remembers what it's like to feel helpless, to know there's nothing you can do to stop it and your life could be over in an instant because a man decreed it to be so. She remembers how no-one cared about her, no-one came for her, just like no-one cares about this woman in Mole's Town.

No-one but her.

"No mercy," she says quietly, simply, "execute him."

Jon searches her face silently, looking for any signs of hesitation, of resistance.

"I want you to execute him," she says again, her voice strong and steady.

Jon nods.

"You heard the Lady," he says and turns his attention to the crying Harry, "Get up."

It's a command to be followed without question, his voice deathly serious, and Harry rises on shaky feet.

The rangers either side of him grab his arms and he begins to struggle again, desperate pleas unheeded. They walk him over to a block of wood, throwing him down and restraining him as Jon calmly follows.

"Harry... here in sights of Gods and men, I sentence you to die," he unsheathes Longclaw, the sound audible as the steel kisses the wind, "would you speak a last word?"

"Please don't," he begs again, "she was just a whore..."

Sansa's almost glad he said that, it speaks to the sort of person he is, and she never looks away, not even as blood sprays across Jon's face like summer rain.  
  


* * *

  
He comes to her that night, when Castle Black is asleep.

He knocks on her door, two steady raps, and when she sees it's him through the tiny gap she leaves, she opens the door wider and lets him inside.

She closes it behind him, resting her palm on the door for a moment, fingers flexing against the chipped wood. When he doesn't speak, silent and restrained, she turns around and clasps her hands in-front of her.

"How can I help you, Jon?"

"I wanted to see how you are," he murmurs, his head tipping to the side, "after today."

She stares at him for a beat before she sighs, averting her gaze to the floor. She doesn't feel terrible, but she can't say she's fine either. She doesn't know what she is. The feeling, something intense and uncomfortable, is stuck in her chest, resigned to some world in-between, and she can't quite get to it.

More than that, she wonders why he cares. She wonders what it is about him that's changed so much, she can't put her finger on it. She wonders why he gave her that power earlier today, because all she's ever known of men is their desire to take it away from her.

"I'm alright," she says and then because she thinks she should, she adds, "I suppose I should say thank you."

His eyes search her face, slow and unapologetic.

"For?"

She stares back blankly, her own eyes narrowing.

"For letting me decide that man's fate," _for helping me find my voice,_ she adds silently, "for me giving me the choice."

He takes a step towards her, half bathed in soft light by the fire. The flames crackle and burn in the corner, casting hollowy shadows under his eyes and in all the right places. Sansa's suddenly struck by the bizarre thought that he looks beautiful, reticent but deadly. That calm energy he always carried with him may have shifted, but there's still _something_ there, something dark and intoxicating.

"Choice is something you haven't had in a long time."

It's not a question as he takes another step towards her, so close now she can feel him, all heat and smoke and fire.

She doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to bring those memories clawing and hurtling painfully back to the surface, and when her eyes flicker over his face, she spots a speck of blood on his cheekbone, just by his ear.

"You missed some," she says, her voice hoarse, and he simply raises a brow in reply.

She gestures for him to follow her as she walks to a small copper basin in the corner of the room and fetches some warm water. They're quiet as she works and he waits patiently, but something hot simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over.

With two gentle hands on his shoulders, she manoeuvres him to stand against the desk, placing the basin by his hip next to him.

His hands grip the edge of the desk, slightly sitting on it, and then she's standing between his spread thighs, too close to be considered appropriate, and she's not moving away.

"I know how to wash myself," he murmurs in that low, rough brogue as she dips the cloth in the water, slightly ringing it out before touching it to his face.

"Obviously not," she quips, tipping her head to the side as she gently brushes it over his cheekbone, cleaning the spots of Harry's blood that had sprayed his face, the spots he must have missed when he returned to his chambers with drops of rubies still dripping from Longclaw's blade.

It's strange how it's _not_ strange, touching him like this. Even as heat flares under her skin, it feels comfortable, _right_.

He just watches her watch him, calm and collected.

Once his skin is clean, she places the cloth back in the water, watching the specks of red float on the surface. Heat flares between her legs, a dampness and a rush she can feel with certainty, and how messed up, how _sick_ is it that the sight of this blood, this gift he's given her, is what stokes her desire unlike anything else?

"Do you like it?" he asks and she wants to look at him, wants to look away from the red, but she just _can't,_ "the blood... the rush of power?"

She takes a shaky breath and words burn in her chest, but she can't find a way to get them out.

"I didn't kill him," she protests weakly, still unable to look at him.

"No, but you liked watching me do it," he murmurs and his finger comes up to lift her chin, forcing her to look at him, "didn't you?"

His eyes are dark and penetrating, staring straight into her soul, demanding her attention, dragging her answers from her.

"Yes, I liked it," she hisses finally, voice low and dark, and she watches his brow arch as the finger under her chin sweeps across her jaw until his hand is cupping her face, "you want me to tell you what happened to me, Jon? You want to know? I have been used by men since the day I left Winterfell. I have been cut, beaten, raped and defiled. Passed around for my name like I was nothing more than a broodmare. I have lost everyone I loved and suffered fates worse than death. What Ramsay Bolton did to me... I could have laid down and died... and I didn't have some Red Woman to bring me back. I had to bring _myself_ back. So yes, demanding justice for a man who had done those same things to another woman... I liked it."

The atmosphere sears between them, heady and intense, and silence stretches out in the scorching gap.

His mouth quirks under his beard, an almost triumphant smile.

"You aren't afraid?"

She swallows past the lump in her throat, her eyes and throat burning, and like some of dark magnet, she can't tear her eyes away from him.

"No," she whispers, her hands moving of their own accord until they're gripping his tunic, fisting the dark material, "I'm not afraid."

_Not anymore._

His own hand leaves her cheek, the backs of his fingers trailing a heated path down her side, making her shudder, before his hand curls around her hip. His other hand leaves the desk to do the same, and then, the air white hot between then, he tugs her closer to him.

She bites back a heated gasp as their groins connect, his thigh pushing her legs apart so he can shove it between them. Even through the layers of his breeches and her heavy dress, she's sure he can feel her heat, her wetness, seeping down her thigh. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, fighting the instinctive urge to thrust her hips, to grind her aching cunt on his thigh, to use him for her own pleasure until stars explode behind her eyes.

His mouth is hot in her hair, his hands burning, and she shudders when his lips brush her ear.

"Aye, _that_..." he starts, his voice low and rough, "...is not fear."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait guys, I've been uninspired... but hope you enjoy this new moodboard and chapter :)

When Sansa was four and ten, she discovered the little button between her thighs that felt good to touch.

She remembers the flare of curiosity when her fingers had brushed it, the way her breath caught in her throat and her legs tightened as she rubbed it faster. She remembers the way her toes had curled into the sheets, her body growing taut like a bow until it snapped and something broke, crashing over her with the force of the waves at Shipbreaker Bay. She remembers the sensation being white hot and blinding – and she remembers the burning shame that had washed over her in the immediate aftermath.

She hadn’t known what it meant, and why it felt so good, and why it felt so bad after. The pleasure and shame seemed to blend into one, and she just got the overwhelming sense that she shouldn’t be putting her hand between her thighs — so she didn’t.

In the years that followed, she never told anyone about the hidden treasure she had found.

She spent a long time trying to work up the courage to ask her Septa what it meant and what it was for. The question burned in the front of her mind, floating amongst talk of needle-work and her future duties as a mother and a queen and a wife — but then Joffrey had taken the old woman’s head and Sansa had never found anyone else to ask.

She supposes she could have asked Margaery, but she could rarely get a word in edgeways, and she never really felt the urge in Kings Landing anyway.

Then she was taken to Winterfell, delivered into the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and the idea of pleasure seemed very far away indeed.

Now, laying in the tiny makeshift cot the stewards had found for her, Sansa finds her hand trailing down her stomach for the first time since she was four and ten.

She doesn’t have any night clothes, doesn’t have any clothes at all other than the dress she arrived in, a tattered piece of fabric that lays discarded on the floor. It’s muddy and dirty and the girl she used to be would have been embarrassed by this — but she finds she doesn’t care. Still, she makes a mental note to ask Jon to find her some new clothes.

For now, she’s naked and flushed, a thin layer of perspiration covering her body, despite the permanent chill outside. She doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s after dark and it’s quiet, the only noise that of some guards murmuring outside her door and Ghost’s howl at the moon.

Thinking of Ghost makes her think of Jon, and thinking of Jon makes her heart beat faster.

Alone and safe behind a locked door, she doesn’t bother to push the strange sensation down.

Her eyes flicker up from her discarded dress on the floor to the cloak hanging on the door. Jon’s Lord Commander cloak. She bites into her bottom lip, remembering the way he’d wrapped her up in it, shrouded her in his warmth and protection like a dark subversion of a wedding ceremony in the godswood. She’s been meaning to give it back to him, but he hasn’t asked yet, so she just… hasn’t.

_She shouldn’t_ , she thinks as she eyes the fabric.

_She really shouldn’t_ — but she does. 

She gets out of bed, grabs the cloak, and lays back down with it.

Then she brings it to her nose, breathes in his scent, and slips her other hand between her wet thighs.

She finds that bundle of nerves, neglected and shamed for so many years, and with every press and stroke, she feels her humiliation disappear. She forgets all about Ramsay and how he’d used her womanhood like a weapon against her, reducing her to an object, something dirty and degrading and shameful.

His sneering face, the one that haunts her every night, merges and moulds into someone darker in an entirely different way – all black curls and grey eyes and a cool demeanour. Cold, unaffected steel.

She thinks of Jon's too-pretty face and his beard and his strong arms and the way he carries himself until she can’t think anymore. She can’t _breathe._

Deep down, she knows she should feel _more_ shameful, not less, thinking of her half-brother like this. A sob wells in her throat, but it’s one of pleasure, not pain, and she refuses to think of herself as broken anymore. Jon’s dangerous, but he would never hurt her, and he’s already taught her to be brave and strong and what could be wrong about that?

She moves on instinct, licks her fingers and pushes two inside. She’s never had something inside her that she’s _wanted_ inside her, and it feels strange, warm and wet and _full._ She lets her other hand cover her breast, tweaking her nipple and biting back a moan as pleasure sparks to the tips of her toes. She lets his cloak drape over her body, clutches it to her chest, her knuckles turning white.

She feels her back arch against the cot, her toes curling into the sheets as she pushes her fingers inside her faster. She crooks them and imagines they’re Jon’s – they would be longer and thicker and they’d reach the spots she can’t.

He would know how to touch her. He would know how to make her feel good, and he’d probably whisper filth in her ear and he would know how to make her come.

She feels frantic, desperate to derive _something_ from this, to know that what lies between her legs can be used for something other than blood and fear and pain.

Jon’s face sears behind her vision again and she knows this is different, because she feels slick and hot and slippery wet. She rubs two fingers up and down her slit again, moving faster, and imagines his mouth down there this time. She thinks of his strong hands holding her thighs apart, thinks of the way his tongue sweeps over his lip at supper to catch a drop of his ale, and imagines what that tongue would look like flicking over her cunt.

_Aye, I will help you,_ his words echo in her ear, make her want to cry — because really, help is all she’s ever wanted.

_But you used to be such a good girl,_ he’s saying now, all low Northern gruff, and heat pools in her stomach.

_You liked watching me do it,_ he’d said about the execution — but she thinks she’d like watching him move between her thighs more; his fingers, his mouth, his cock.

Something coils tight in her stomach, a stretched band ready to snap. She takes a deep breath and lets it happen, his face the last thing she sees before her vision blurs.

Later, she won’t remember that she imagined him calling her _sister_ when she came with his name on her lips. She won't remember how she tried to muffle the sound into his cloak, trembling under the sheer force of it.

And the next morning, Jon’s expression is strangely knowing as his mouth pulls into a smirk and he asks if she slept well.

She locks it away for when she slips her hand between her thighs again. 

* * *

Theon always said that if Jon ever saw him again, he would kill him.

He used to tremble at the thought, even more pathetic than usual, as he insisted her brother would never forgive him for his crimes against the Starks.

When Sansa thinks about the times they had spoken about it — stolen, half-conversations between two lost souls at night — she remembers him as Theon, because it wasn’t Reek that stole Winterfell from Robb and strung up two farm boys who could have been Bran and Rickon.

Theon’s crimes were his own and maybe he didn’t deserve absolution.

But _then_ —

It wasn’t Theon’s fault that Robb died. The choices that had led her brother to Walder Frey had been his own.

Sometimes, when she was in Kings Landing and Winterfell, she would lay in bed and stare at the canopy and think about how they died. She would see the traitor Roose Bolton thrust his knife into Robb’s chest, see her mother with her throat slit and tossed in a cold river down south, see a sister and a niece or nephew she never even got to meet bleed out on the dark, stone floor.

Sometimes she misses Robb so much, it makes her chest ache. Sometimes she hates him too much to miss him. 

But even so, losing Winterfell hadn’t killed Robb, and those farm boys probably had families and people who loved and missed and mourned them, but they weren’t Bran and Rickon.

And she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Theon — _Reek_.

If Ramsay hadn’t killed her by now, she would have killed herself. It’s a frank realisation, one that should make her balk, but it’s a fact.

So when Jon’s men find him and drag him through the gates of Castle Black, she finds herself begging for his life.

He looks a pitiful thing, dead behind the eyes and shivering in the snow. She wants to comfort him, but she doesn’t know how, and she wants to hurt him too. Still. The emotions confuse her and she feels overwhelmed and conflicted and very, very tired.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Jon so angry, not even when they were children. Back then, he would throw his wooden sword down and storm off when Robb laughed at him for wanting to play Lord of Winterfell, and he would blush furiously and sulk when Theon made a lewd comment about his inexperience with girls. She’s not proud of it, but she even remembers making him cry once or twice. He would always try to hold it in, but his bottom lip would tremble and he’d blink back hot tears when she called him a bastard and spat that no-one wanted him.

He’s always been emotional, but when they were children, he had been sullen and morose, and he would never lose his temper.

Now they’re adults, and his rage vibrates off him in waves. The courtyard practically trembles under it, the air thrumming like a dangerous, living thing around him.

“Get up,” he fumes, his cloak back around his shoulders, making him look taller and more powerful.

Theon – she’ll call him this because this is how she would like to remember him – tries to stand on trembling legs, but he’s too weak and he falls again.

The mottled blue and black of his knuckles are a stark contrast against the white snow as he curls his hands into fists.

Jon’s nostrils flare as his jaw clenches.

“I said—” there's a flash of white as he spits the words out through his teeth, “—get up.”

“Jon—” she takes a step towards him, rubs the tops of her arms against the cold, “—he can’t. He’s too weak, you can see that.”

His eyes snap to hers and she’s stunned by their intensity, dark pools of black.

“You’re defending him?” he lets out a little humourless sound, all deep and low from the back of his throat, “ _you?_ ”

She can understand why he’d be surprised, but he doesn’t have all the information – he doesn’t _know._

“Theon _helped_ me,” she mutters under her breath. She wants to keep this between them, away from prying ears and idle gossip, so she leans into him and feels his warmth, all smoke and fire, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

His eyes flare, his top lip curling into a snarl. She thinks he looks like Ghost – powerful and dangerous.

“Robb would be here if it weren’t for him,” he counters lowly, “and Bran and Rickon.”

“That’s not fair,” she murmurs, because it’s not, “Robb made his own mistakes, and those boys he killed weren’t Bran and Rickon.”

“Aye, that makes it alright, does it?”

She sighs, closing her eyes in irritation because she’s struggled with this too.

“Of course not,” she settles on, “but it means they’re out there somewhere and we may still get them back. His crimes are many — but he pushed Ramsays’ lover over a wall and he helped me escape. That should count for something. And _look_ at him, Jon – hasn’t he suffered enough?”

Jon’s expression twists in disgust.

“He’s still alive,” he counters as a way of disagreeing with her and his eyes drift down to Theon again.

He’s still cowering in the snow, a shell of the man he used to be, and he won’t look at them.

It reminds her of her wedding night—

_No, Reek! I told you to watch._

—when he tried to turn his eyes away from the blood and sweat and tears, seeping into the sheets.

She had hated him then, had thought him cowardly and broken, and that hatred still lingered even weeks before, when he had told her to go to Jon and be brave.

But now, she feels differently, and she grieves for the cocky, self-assured boy she knew. 

She hears the faint sound of soft paws on wet snow, and Ghost emerges from behind her. He sniffs the air and growls. He gravitates towards his master and Jon runs his gloved fingers through the animal's fur, looking like a deadly pair. 

Theon flinches, undoubtedly remembering the snarls of Ramsay’s hounds, and Sansa would hate for Ghost – so loyal and devoted – to be used as a weapon in the same way.

“Jon, can we at least _talk_ about this?” she implores and he looks irritated by her begging, “away from everyone else.”

He stares at her, his jaw clenched tight, before he finally gives a curt nod.

“Fine,” he snarls, giving Theon one more look of disgust before he gestures for a couple of rangers, “find somewhere for him.”

The rangers glance at each other uneasily, before one of them asks: “one of the rooms?”

Jon rolls his eyes, impatient and uncaring.

“Put him in Ghost’s cage. It should feel like home.”

“Jon,” she breathes incredulously, remembering the tiny, dirty kennel she had found him in all those months before, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes drag to hers and she feels herself bristle as his temper flares behind his eyes. It seems to pull and snap like a leather band, heating the air around them.

She doesn’t quite understand how a man can be so terrifying while doing so little, and why it invokes so many different reactions within her.

“You seem to be quite the expert on what I _can_ and _can’t_ do these days,” he says lowly, “perhaps you forget yourself.”

She narrows her eyes, not wanting to back down, refusing to let him _put her in her place._ She rages against it, will always push against it, because she refuses to be powerless again.

But there has to be compromise, the occasional surrender in this game of push and pull, and if it means he’ll reconsider Theon’s fate, she supposes it’ll have to do.

She casts her eyes to the ground and doesn’t say anything else as the rangers pick Theon up under his arms and drag him away.

She watches the tracks his boots leave behind in the snow, before she turns her attention back to Jon.

He pushes past her without so much as a second look.

“Jon, I really think this is the right thing to do. We need to sit down and consider everything that’s happened and what the right and _just_ punishment would be—”

Jon pauses and she watches the muscles in his back tense, until—

“Enough, Sansa.”

He growls the words, his hand held out in a warning she’s never listened to before — but she listens for now. 

* * *

The next time she touches herself, she’s interrupted by a knock on her door.

The shock of it makes her hand fly up to her chest, an almost-sob of frustration escaping her lips. She had been so close, _so close_ to the edge, she wants to murder the person on the other side.

She gets up on shaky legs, grabbing a robe Brienne had given her and tossing it on. It’s far too big and looks a bit ridiculous, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She’s stunned when she opens the door and sees Jon.

He’s standing with his head tipped to the side, a knowing expression on his handsome face, his hands holding a bundle of dresses.

“What's this?” she whispers as a way of greeting, her eyes flickering to his hands.

“You said you needed clothes,” he reminds her of a conversation they’d had a few days before, “Lady Melisandre gave me these to give to you.”

Sansa’s nose scrunches, her irrational dislike of the woman overriding her need for the dresses.

“Sansa,” he drawls her name, arching a brow, “you can’t wear the dress you turned up in forever — and _this_ …” he tugs at the lapel of Brienne’s robe, amused, “…seems rather ill-fitted.”

“It’s Brienne’s,” she grumbles.

“Aye, I can see that,” he says, then forces her to take the clothes, “these will do for now.”

“Alright,” she concedes reluctantly, feeling the fine material under her hands, “thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome,” his tongue wraps around the words, before he adds, “sister,”

The word flares heat between her legs, her cheeks burning as her body reacts without her permission.

“Why do you call me that?” she whispers, resentful.

“Should I not?” his brow quirks again, “do we not share the same blood, the same father?”

She narrows her eyes, a chill that has nothing to do with the cold sweeping over her skin.

“I do not wish to be reminded.”

“Why?”

She narrows her gaze, fire in her eyes, because he knows _exactly_ why.

His darkened gaze flickers from her eyes to her mouth and back again. He waits patiently for her, testing her, a dangerous game of push and pull, who will break, who will bend first. 

Finally, he pulls back and she thinks she’s won. 

"Goodnight, Sansa. I do hope you'll get some rest." 

Then he’s gently taking her hand, the one she had between her thighs five minutes ago, and bringing it to his mouth. Silently, he takes her index and middle fingers, the ones she had fucked herself with, and without breaking heated eye contact, he presses the backs of them to his nose, inhaling. Then, he slowly turns them, and places a gentle kiss on the pads. His lips feel as soft and full as they look, and his hands are cold but his touch _blazes._

He’s barely touched her but the action is all man, all wolf, and her knees practically buckle.

She burns under the implication because there’s no doubt in her mind that he knows _exactly_ where those fingers have been — and suddenly, she doesn’t feel like she’s winning at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... what do we think Jon's gonna do with Theon?🤔


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where this quick update came from! But writing makes these tough times easier. Hope you enjoy this chapter! things are steaming up a little now...

“Where’s the cage? Where did he put him? Tell me _now._ ”

Sansa demands of Tormund, her eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips. She has a steely sense of determination, the stubborn girl she used to be rearing its head. She’s been buried for so long under the person moulded by Cersei, Joffrey, Littlefinger and Ramsay’s hands, a damaged little bird with her wings clipped.

Tormund gives a full bellied laugh, clearly pleased with her fire.

“I don’t think the little Crow wants you to see him.”

“I don’t give a shit what Jon wants.”

Tormund laughs again — half-surprised, half-impressed. It’s a deep sound from the back of his throat and he crosses his arms over his massive chest. He’s holding what looks like an ivory horn and he lifts it to his lips, swigging from it. When he takes it away again, Sansa watches ale drip from his beard.

He’s silent for a moment as his eyes drift over her.

“You remind me of her,” he says eventually.

Sansa quirks a brow.

“Who?”

“Ygritte,” he replies, but she doesn’t recognise the name, “she didn’t give a shit what Jon wanted either. Bent him to her will.”

She realises he’s talking about the wildling girl and she decides to run with it, to push him for the information Jon won’t give her.

“Yes, she must have been quite something to make him forget his vows.”

Tormund shrugs and takes another gulp, making her step back slightly as he brings the horn down and some ale splashes onto the floor. He hides it well, gets himself under control, but she doesn’t miss the brief flicker of pain that flashes behind his eyes. This girl had meant something to him. He had loved her too.

Maybe it wasn’t the way Jon had loved her, but it was love all the same, and Sansa burns with inexplicable jealousy.

“What was she like?”

He smiles and despite being a wildling who cares little for hygiene, his teeth are a bright white against the flames of his beard.

“Brave and fierce and fucking wild,” his chest puffs with pride, “didn’t take any of his shit. Might be harder to make him bend now, little one, but if anyone can do it, you can.”

She narrows her eyes, her curious gaze flickering over him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re special. Kissed by fire—” he says again, his voice gruff as his eyes flicker to her hair, “—and the little Crow likes his women kissed by fire.”

“I’m not his woman,” she practically grumbles, burning under the implication, “I’m his sister.”

Tormund smirks, seemingly amused. He looks like he’s in on a secret he’s not sharing, and he releases a small, non-committal sound.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she sniffs, “where did he put Theon?”

He clicks his tongue and she waits impatiently while he takes another drink.

“There’s a cage round back,” he flicks a massive thumb in the direction, “apparently that cunt Thorne used to make Jon lock his wolf up there. He was let out to help with the battle against the free folk — don’t think he’s been back in since. You’ll find your little kneeler friend there.”

Sansa finds herself more interested in _“the battle against the free folk”_ than Theon’s whereabouts and she tips her head to the side.

“The battle against the free folk?”

Tormund gives a low laugh. “Another story for another time, little one. But we gave the fuckers a run for their money, don’t you worry about that.”

He pushes past her with a wink and she finds herself turning with him, her curiosity piqued.

“Tormund?”

He stops, glancing over his huge shoulder with an arched brow.

She already knows Jon loved her, so she asks, “did she love him… your wildling friend?”

Tormund’s smile wavers then, becomes gentler, devoid of humour.

“Aye, she loved him. Very much.”

It’s silent for a moment before Sansa nods and Tormund nods back.

Then, he leaves her alone with her thoughts.

As she walks towards the direction of Ghost’s cage, she thinks she shouldn’t have asked that. It was too many lifetimes ago to matter.

Jon isn’t capable of love anymore — and neither is she.

* * *

She finds Theon in Ghost’s dusty cage, just as Tormund said she would.

Given the wolf’s size, the enclosure is large enough, larger than Ramsay’s kennels, and she supposes it’s a small mercy. She gives the lock a futile tug before she sits on the ground in-front of it, in the mid and dirt, not caring at all about Melisandre’s dress.

Theon’s eyes widen when he sees her and he scrambles backwards, hugging his knees to his chest and gently rocking.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Theon—” she reaches for him, her hand slipping between the bars before she pauses, wrapping her fingers around them instead.

“Reek.”

She sighs, her grip tightening.

“You’re Theon Greyjoy,” she says passionately — tries to make him _see._

“I’m not,” the broken man mutters, “I’m Reek. I deserve to be Reek.”

She can’t really argue with that last part, not after what he’s done, but she doesn’t see the point in all this. Men can be so macabre, so morose and self-indulgent. She finds it dull.

“It’s done,” she voices her irritation, “what use is there in crying over it?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Make me understand.”

“Your father…” he whispers heavily and Sansa’s chest tightens without her permission at his memory, “…was the only father I ever knew. Sometimes I picture his face. I think of how ashamed he would be. I think how he would kill me himself if he could.”

“But he can’t,” she says flatly, unemotionally, “he’s dead.”

What does it matter what Ned Stark would do when his head has already rotted on the walls of the Red Keep? All this talk about her father that’s always followed her — of how _honourable_ he was, how just and good — where had it gotten him? He would never be those things again. He would never sit in the Great Hall with her mother by his side, or stand on the balcony watching his sons spar. He would never tell Arya off for sneaking away from her Septa, or Bran for climbing trees too high. He would never hold her or kiss her or _help_ her because he had gotten himself killed.

Theon doesn’t reply to that, his expression twisting in pain.

“And Robb…” the name falls from his mouth in a broken sob.

Sansa stares down at him, her expression blank.

“He’s dead too.”

“It’s my fault,” he cries, his sobs wracking his frail body, “he loved me like a brother and I betrayed him.”

She doesn’t know if he’s _trying_ to enrage her, but her gut stirs with white hot anger. Robb was many things, and he made many mistakes, but he was a good man. For a time — before Arya, before Bran and Rickon — they were the only true born Starks in Winterfell and she had loved him. He used to carry her around on his shoulders and listen to her side of the story when she fought with Arya and kiss her on the forehead when she cried. The love she had for him was intense and pure and strong, and though Theon hadn’t driven the knife through his heart, his betrayal had gone a long way in weakening his position.

“Why?” she asks eventually, her eyes and throat burning, “why did you?” 

Theon cries again, his hands shaking.

“I thought I knew. I thought it was for the Greyjoys, because I would never be a Stark. Robb reminded me of that every day… just by being him. He was King in the North and _I_ —” he pauses, his throat sounding thick with tears, “I was nothing. I grew up with you, with the Starks _and_ I was Ironborn but — I was neither.”

She doesn’t feel sympathetic, doesn’t feel anything at all other than mild anger and disgust.

“Jon was nothing,” she says, the words sounding random to her ears, but _she_ knows what she’s trying to say, “he didn’t even have a name. But he would _never_ have done what you did.”

“He had a father who loved him,” Theon replies brokenly and Sansa’s anger flares again.

“My father loved you.”

His mouth snaps shut then — and it stays shut save for his quiet sobs.

Finally, she asks, “what else did you do?” because she wants to hear it.

She wants him to say it, to speak it into existence, as though if he gets it all out, the light can seep in. She can remind him of the good he did, the steps he’s made towards redemption.

“I murdered those boys,” he whispers, his eyes falling shut in grief.

She swallows, her throat dry. Until now, she’s only ever mourned them because they could have been Bran and Rickon. Now, she mourns them because they were innocent children and they didn’t deserve to die.

“You made a choice and you chose wrong,” she says and the starkness of it makes him flinch, the words physically painful, “and now you have to live with it.”

“I don’t,” he fires back, his dull eyes flickering to her, “I have to die. I deserve to die. Sansa… I _want_ to die.”

But she doesn’t want him to. He’s the only person who helped her and she wants him to live.

She stands up, brushing the dirt off her dress.

“We don’t always get what we want, Theon.”

She mutters a reminder she knows she should listen to herself — and then she leaves him alone in the cold, dark cage.

* * *

“I spoke to Tormund today,” Sansa says that evening as she sits in Jon’s solar. She balances her cup of wine delicately on one knee, the fingers of her other hand trailing absentmindedly around the rim.

Jon sits opposite her, the fire roaring between them. She watches him arch a brow, his own fingers strumming on the arm of his chair. He drinks from a cup of his own and Sansa traces the movement of his tongue.

“You should stay away from Tormund Giantsbane,” he murmurs and when his dark eyes flick heavily to hers, she understands his meaning.

It makes her scoff, rolling her eyes to the sky.

“He doesn’t want me. I’m a _kneeler —_ so he says — and he’s a wildling.”

“He is still a man,” Jon says evenly, almost amused, “and how can any man not want someone as lovely as you?”

That makes her pause, a strange ache in the pit of her stomach deepening. It feels like he’s teasing her, but she can’t be sure, and she bites her tongue to stop herself saying anything she might regret.

 _Any man,_ he’d said, and he might be different now, but he’s still a man too.

“What did you discuss?” he asks eventually, as though taking pity on her.

“Your wildling lover.”

Jon blinks — once, twice — before a tiny scoff escapes his lips.

“You seem to have developed quite an obsession.”

She hardly thinks that’s fair, having rarely been the one to bring the girl up in conversation, and _yet_ —

She does find herself thinking about it often.

“He said I reminded him of her.”

Jon stares at her again before his mouth quirks, a small, husky laugh falling from his lips.

“Why is that funny?” she frowns, her temper flaring.

“You’re nothing like her.”

He might not mean it as an insult, but it feels like one.

“Why did he say it then?”

“You’d have to ask him,” he dismisses and his tone sounds like he’s done with this conversation. Ghost stirs at his feet and gives a sleepy yawn, his nose snuggling into Jon’s calf.

He’s speaking again before she can reply. 

“Have I hurt your feelings?”

Her eyes snap to his and she takes a sip of her wine, grateful for the sweet taste as it makes its way down her throat. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the prospect, but she lies anyway.

“No.”

He arches a brow. He doesn’t believe her.

“Ygritte was… reckless,” he says eventually and Sansa realises she’s never heard him speak her name, “she was unable to understand her emotions, let alone restrain them, and she wasn’t very smart.”

Sansa frowns, gripping her cup a little tighter.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Well, when you love someone, you don’t have to be nice all the time.”

It seems a strange sentiment, but she supposes she knows what he means. He loved her despite all those things, because when you love someone, you accept their flaws too. He has many of his own, after-all.

“Tormund said she was brave — so you must think me a coward.”

Jon clicks his tongue, tipping his head slightly.

“I didn’t say that,” he murmurs, “there is more than one kind of bravery. You survived Cersei and Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton and found your way here. I think you very brave indeed.”

She hides her smile behind her cup, her eyes drifting to the fire. She watches the flames dance, watches them cast shadows that lick up the walls, and shifts in her seat. She feels the atmosphere shift, something changing in the air, and she wants to talk about Theon.

“I also saw Theon today.”

The air blisters between them, his face stilling before turning dark. The mere mention of his name makes him angry, makes _her_ hot and intrigued, and she finds herself chasing the curious feeling. His changing moods intrigue her. He’s sullen and blank – cool, unaffected steel – but he can also be sardonic and dry, prone to sudden bursts of rage.

“I would ask you not to do that but I doubt you would listen.”

“I wouldn’t,” she admits.

“Aye, so I won’t,” he mutters, “I just do not understand your insistence on defending him.”

She defends him because he defended her. Because she was lost, so lost, and he helped her find her way. 

“There was no-one else. No-one came for me,” she says, before quietly adding, “you didn’t come for me.”

A flicker of _something_ passes over his features then, his jaw clenching tight.

“I’m sorry,” he replies flatly, “I was rather busy dying.”

“Before then?” she ignores his excuse even as it flickers and burns painfully in her chest, “when I was a hostage in Kings Landing, when father’s head was taken and my mother and brother turned to ash in the south… you didn’t come for me then. You always loved Arya best and you didn’t come for her either.”

He doesn’t look hurt, but he doesn’t look unaffected either, and she watches a muscle near his ear tick as he tightens his jaw.

In the end, _she_ came to him. That was the one thing Ramsay gave her, a slip up due to his arrogance.

 _Bastards can rise high in the world,_ he’d said, _like your half-brother, Jon Snow._

She had known then that he could help her. He could keep her safe, could help her take back her life and her home — if only she could get to him. Theon had helped make that happen.

“If I had known…” he starts lowly, the words lodging in his throat.

She shrugs, not resentful, because it’s the past and it’s over now.

“That’s why I want to save him,” she says.

His eyes drag to hers, dark and intense.

“Is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You gave the order for Harry’s death. Perhaps you liked the power,” he pushes, “perhaps you want a little more.”

She bristles under the implication, his words pressing too close. She hates how perceptive he is, how all-seeing. He doesn’t give her the space to hide.

But he’s not the only one who can play this game, who can manipulate and tease and bend people to their will. She holds his heated gaze for a moment before she makes a decision. She leans down and places her cup on the floor before she slowly stands. 

“Would you give it to me?” she asks quietly and watches his brow arch, not lost to the double meaning, “would you let me decide his fate?”

His teeth scrape his bottom lip as he smiles.

“What do you think?” he husks, his voice low.

She _thinks_ there’s an ache between her thighs and her chest feels too tight, but she _says—_

“I _think_ I could persuade you.”

She takes a step towards him, the air white hot between them. She finally reaches him and blocks out any hesitation, any thought that this might be sinful and improper and wrong. She lets herself feel, not think. Standing in-front of him, she watches that brow quirk again as he lets her gently take his cup out of his hands. He’s silent as she places it on the table next to him, his curious eyes flickering over her.

“Aye — and how would you do that?” he asks and she could _swear_ his voice sounds lower, like he needs to clear his throat.

She feels her mouth twitch, her darkened eyes flickering down to him. The fire crackles and pops between them, penetrating the silence, hanging thick and heavy in the air.

Her breath hitches when he sweeps his hands behind her, curling around the backs of her thighs. Even through her skirts, his touch _burns,_ and she almost stumbles when he pulls her closer. Her hands fly to his shoulders for support and the leather of his jerkin creaks under her fingers. His palms squeeze the backs of her thighs tighter still, a question in his eyes, and she fights to get back on top.

“I have my ways,” she says coyly.

She glances down at him through her lashes and his mouth quirks, like he finds the situation very amusing indeed.

Her hips are dangerously close to his face and she suddenly wishes she was naked. She wishes his hands were curling around the backs of her bare thighs, tugging her closer so he can bury his face between them, his deliciously full lips mouthing at her wet cunt.

This is not how young ladies behave, not how siblings behave — not Stark siblings, at least.

But Jon’s not a Stark, and she finds she couldn’t care less.

“Won’t you show me?” he asks and she feels her mouth twitch, her right hand coming up to cup his face. She slides her thumb over his jaw, swiping over rough stubble, before she traces his full bottom lip. She knows she doesn’t imagine the way his pupils dilate and blow to black, his lips opening slightly.

She has the upper hand.

But _then_ —

He opens his mouth wider and pulls her thumb inside. His tongue licks the pad and she holds back a moan when he bites down softly. It’s a brief action and she pulls her thumb back, wet now as she rubs the side of his jaw again.

Burning under his gaze, she feels wild and free and she decides to push it further.

“Yes, I will show you,” she says, and then she pinches her skirts at the thighs and lowers herself to his lap. Her breath hitches at the look that sweeps over his face, all dark surprise, and she watches his gaze flicker from her eyes to their laps and back again.

His hands slip up her thighs then, nimble fingers dancing until his thumbs hook where her hips meet her thighs. He pulls her closer and she bites back her gasp, her cheeks burning. She feels like she’s on fire as her own hands curve down his chest, feeling the cool leather under her fingers. His heartbeat is frustratingly steady under her palm.

Ghost suddenly stirs, padding over to the fireplace like he wants to give them privacy. She smiles softly at the animal, remembering Lady, and when she returns her gaze to Jon, his brow is arched again.

“Jealous you don’t have your own wolf?” he teases and she can tell he doesn’t mean for the reminder to be unkind. 

She bites her bottom lip, her eyes flickering to his mouth.

“I _do_ have my own wolf.”

When he replies, his voice is all low, dark Northern gruff, and the hint of amusement in it makes heat flare between her thighs.

“Aye, is that what I am then?”

She nods and swears the air _crackles_ between them.

Curiously, she rolls her hips and watches a flicker of weakness pass over his expression. His eyelids flutter slightly, his jaw clenching, and his fingers tighten around her. She trails one hand up his chest, gently gripping his throat, before she reaches his hair. She tugs at the leather band tying it back until she removes it, tossing it to the floor and letting her fingers twist in his curls.

Her fingertips scratch at his scalp and he _groans_ , low and deep, so she does it again.

“Is this what you think about?” he husks and when he opens his eyes, they’re black, burning and blazing out of control, “when you touch yourself at night?”

Sansa freezes, her breath catching in her throat.

“What?” she breathes, “I don’t…”

“You don’t?” he rumbles, amused, before he takes the hand in his hair and places it between them in their laps, entwining their fingers, “you’re telling me that when you’re alone in that room… you don’t have these fingers strumming between your pretty little thighs?”

“Fuck,” she whispers, blind with lust, as she shifts her hips again and _feels it._ She feels the bulge in his breeches and rubs against it, delirious that she’s not alone in this, that he feels it too. His head bows and she hears a small grunt, his breath hot at her breast, and she rolls her hips again and chases the feeling.

She spreads her thighs wider, shifting until his hard cock is pressing against her cunt in the perfect spot. He sits back slightly and lets her move, lets her use him for her own pleasure, his dark eyes focused on her face. Her breath hitches in her throat as she gyrates harder, that tell-tale coil in the pit of her stomach intensifying. Her fingers dig into his strong shoulders as she rocks against him and—

It sneaks up on her. It’s not quite as intense as when she flicks her clit or fucks herself with her fingers. It’s more of a soft, rolling orgasm, a pleasant ache, and she digs her teeth into her bottom lip to stop her moan as she comes.

When she comes back to earth, she sees him just looking at her.

“Did you just…?”

She purses her lips, too blissed out to be embarrassed, and she feels a shudder pass through her in the afterglow.

“Fuck,” he bites out, rough and low, and he pulls her a little closer to bury his face in her neck, “dirty girl.”

She rolls her hips again, revels in his little groan, and she’s about to open her mouth when there’s a knock on the door.

He pulls back, his eyes not leaving her face as he says, “come in.”

He sounds casual, completely unfazed by the prospect of being found with his hair free from its tie and a raging erection and his sister in his lap. She, however, is not unphased and she scrambles off him, burning and wet between her thighs.

She slumps back in her own chair and tries to settle her racing heart.

She’s not sure that was for Theon at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this Jon is honestly SO hard to write, I find myself carefully considering every single word he says... getting the balance right is difficult, so hope it came off okay :)


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa supposes she should feel guilty.

She imagines many girls would, after grinding themselves to an orgasm on their half-brother’s lap.

But the next morning, Sansa doesn’t feel guilty at all.

With Ramsay, she had felt powerless. He had taken her pleasure for his own, ripped it from her, leaving her an empty shell. Jon scares her in a different way. He’s dark and cold and sometimes downright terrifying, but somehow she knows he would never hurt her.

She’s not afraid anymore. She feels darker too, rougher around the edges, and _whatever_ last night was, she had felt in control.

How her body reacts to him, that molten heat in the pit of her belly, confuses her, but it doesn’t scare her. She won’t concern herself with thoughts that they share the same father, what that father would say, what Robb would say, what _mother_ would say. Jon had made her feel good and that’s all she’s concerned about.

She never loved him like a brother — so it’s easy now not to see him as one.

All she’s known of sexual acts is how they can hurt her. What lies between her legs has only ever been used for bad, but still, she knows there's power in it.

So, she doesn’t feel shame or guilt.

Instead, she remembers what Cersei had told her all those years ago—

_Tears aren't a woman's only weapon... her best weapon is between her legs._

—and she thinks she might know how to get her way after-all.  
  


* * *

  
She knocks on his door mid-afternoon, her body thrumming and alive.

“Come in,” he says in a smooth voice and she does, closing the door behind her.

He’s sitting at his desk again, his hands tented casually over his mouth, and he stands when she enters, walking around the desk.

“How can I help you, Sansa?” he asks as usual, coming to stand against the desk. His hands rest behind him, lightly gripping the wood, and her eyes flicker to them. She remembers how they strong they felt on her hips, his fingers burning even through the material of her dress, as he helped her drag her clothed cunt over his cock.

He had been hard, straining against his breeches, and she _knows_ she’s not alone in this. 

She doesn’t answer his question.

With what happened last night burning at the front of her mind and her confidence strangely sky high, she walks over to him and sinks to her knees.

Dust streaks onto the fancy dress Melisandre gave her, and the stone is cold and hard, but her hands are steady as they travel to his sword belt.

Her eyes flicker up to him, and she sees him quietly watching her, like he’s interested to see what she’s going to do next. She’s barely _done_ anything and yet she can feel warm wetness trickling onto her inner thigh and his eyes are darker too.

But when her sure fingers start to undo his belt, his hands fly to her wrists, smoothly stopping her.

She looks up, confused, and he holds her wrists between them.

"You don’t have to do that.”

His voice is a low, Northern husk that wraps around her like smoke and she sits back on her haunches, feeling the fire of humiliation burn her cheeks.

“Ramsay made me do it,” she says.

Something dark flickers over his face then and he looks angry — but she knows it’s not at her.

“I’m not Ramsay,” he says simply, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

But she wants him to.

 _Obviously_ not the way Ramsay had — but she wants him to make her feel pleasure so blinding, it’s almost pain, and leave finger-shaped bruises on her skin. 

Whatever she feels about it, whatever the conflicting feelings, what happened last night was _hers._

“I want you to.”

Jon frowns. “Sansa…”

She sighs in irritation and asks for something else instead.

“Kiss me, then,” she demands, a strange sort of confidence searing through her veins. It’s exhilarating, _thrilling_ in a way, and he ruins it again.

The backs of two fingers stroke across her flushed cheek until his thumb rests on her bottom lip. He tips his head to the side and gives a little, low hum – then his hand is dropping back to his side.

“If I kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

His words, covering her skin like a dark promise, flare heat between her thighs.

“What if I didn’t want you to stop?”

He smirks slightly, just a small twitch of his mouth.

“Well, that would make you very wanton indeed,” he tuts, but it doesn’t sound like a reprimand.

“I don’t care.”

“ _Lady Sansa,_ ” he quips, his low voice teasing and sarcastic, “what would your mother say?”

“My mother’s dead,” she bites back without hesitation, her voice dull and blank.

His brow arches at that, surprised by her bluntness.

“Still, I think it would rather _wound_ me to prove Lady Catelyn right.”

“Right about what?”

“Me.”

She remembers then, how her mother used to treat him. She had hated him, considered him an abomination, a disease, all for belonging to a mother he never even knew. Sansa had always found it jarring, how she could switch so quickly, one moment smiling at a giggling Rickon as she bounced him on her knee and the next screaming at Jon for simply existing.

Sansa loved her mother—loves her still—but _gods_ , she could be a bitch.

“After-all, what was it she used to say about me?” he asks, as though he’s testing her. It always feels like he’s testing her, like he can stare straight into her soul and keep himself one step ahead, but she’s determined to keep up.

“She said to stay away from you,” Sansa answers frankly and remembers the way she had, “she said that you were born from lust and lies and weakness — and that your bastard blood made you wanton and cruel.”

“Your mother did love to talk,” he says dryly.

“Yes, I found it strange,” Sansa admits, “because you were certainly never cruel. In-fact, you were the best of us. Always so kind.”

Something flickers behind his grey eyes, something _real,_ and he looks like the man he used to be. The man who gave Arya her sword, who read bedtime stories to Rickon and Bran, and loved Robb like a brother, and never died. But then his walls are back up, dark and impenetrable, and she tries to chip away at them again.

“But you’re different now,” she whispers, not necessarily a bad thing, but a _fact_. Her eyes take him in again, seeing just how different he is. How he holds himself with confidence, commanding attention, how his hair is half-pulled back to reveal the strong lines of his face, and his beard is thick and he wears _rings_ now. She doesn’t know why that makes her stomach clench a bit.

“So are you,” he says, a hint of amusement in his husky voice, “I don’t recall you getting down on your knees for me before.”

She matches his expression, refusing to break, refusing to even bend.

“Would you have liked that?” she asks, voice lined with faux innocence, “my pretty, highborn mouth wrapped around your bastard cock?”

The words are filthy; they shock her even as she listens to them fall from her lips, feeling somewhat disconnected, like she’s outside of her body looking in.

Her anger flares again because he _barely reacts_. That brow just quirks again and his dark eyes sweep over her, inquisitive and searching. 

“Who taught you to talk like that?”

His voice is low, unfeeling, and she wants to shake him.

She presses forward again, clawing for a reaction—

“Or perhaps it was _Arya’s_ mouth you dreamt of.”

—and she gets it.

His expression twists, a look of disgust sweeping over his dark features. He shakes his head, his top lip curling slightly, and his voice is lower when he speaks.

“I never loved you like I loved her.”

He says it so matter of fact, it’s like he doesn’t even mean to hurt her and maybe it _shouldn’t_ hurt, but it does.

“Charming,” she mutters.

He tips his head to the side, his brows drawing together in a slight frown.

“You’re misunderstanding me.”

“Oh really?” she scoffs, because _obviously_ this is all her fault, “do explain.”

“My love for Arya was always innocent,” he says, “my love for you… was not.”

“You loved me?” she says blankly, surprised by the revelation, because if she’s honest with herself, it’s not that she _didn’t_ love him — it’s more that she never gave him any thought at all.

She hadn’t cared enough about him to hate him or love him. She had been indifferent, sometimes forgetting he was even there.

“I had love _for_ you,” it’s a subtle correction, but a correction all the same, “because you were my sister and I wanted to be one of you. But I didn’t like you. I had fun with Arya and I taught her things and she taught me things. All you did was frustrate me. Make me feel as worthless as your mother did.”

Despite herself, she feels guilty then, like she should finally apologise, so she does.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a lifetime ago,” he dismisses, but his voice is somehow gentler, as though he accepts the apology, “my point is… Arya never inspired reactions within me that would prove your mother right. Sometimes, when she was cruel to me, I thought about punishing her by spreading your thighs. I took myself in hand and thought about your pretty red hair wrapped around my fist. I _did_ think about that highborn mouth wrapped around my bastard cock, as you so eloquently put it. I never thought of Arya that way. I never loved you the way I loved her — but I never wanted her the way I wanted you.”

She’s stunned by his speech, the most she’s heard him speak since she arrived — or maybe _ever._ She understands what he meant now, how he never said it to hurt her, but to explain that he’s never seen her like a sister — just as she’s never seen him as a brother. She’s pleased to know he wanted her, that he’s shared that with her.

He doesn’t give much, but he’s started to give some, and that has to _mean_ something.

“You admit I have some power over you, then?”

He cracks a smile, tipping his head to the side.

“Aye, alright. If you want to put it that way.”

“I do,” she says, then quickly demands, “let Theon go.”

Jon blinks, once, twice, then lets out a low, frustrated noise from the back of his throat.

“You are so very stubborn.”

She throws him a little pleased smile.

“Yes, I am.”

“Theon’s betrayal played a big part in your brother’s death — and you loved Robb. He murdered Rodrik and two innocent boys. He stole your ancestral home. He practically spat on your father’s memory.”

Sansa bristles, feeling frustrated and attacked and already tired of his conversation.

“I do not need to be reminded.”

Jon stares back at her, his look deadpan and significant.

“Don’t you?”

“Do _you_ need to be reminded of the things Ramsay did to him?”

“I don’t really _care_ what Ramsay did to him.”

She flinches at this, wounded by the idea that he might not care what Ramsay did to _her_ either.

He seems to read her reaction, and something flickers over his expression.

“I care what he did to you,” he says, strangely soft, “you didn’t deserve it. Theon did.”

She doesn’t know about that, but _regardless_ —

“He’s suffered enough,” she insists, “he’s already been punished for his sins.”

Jon pauses, the atmosphere stilling for a moment.

“Alright,” he says eventually, seemingly conceding, “but I’m not letting him go. He can stay here and take the black. The oath of celibacy shouldn’t be difficult given what you’ve said of his current condition.”

He’s being cruel, his mouth twisted into a dark smirk, and something isn’t quite _right_ in the way he’s yielded to her — but she doesn’t want to push the subject.

She just gives a grateful sigh of relief instead.

“Thank you.”

“You should get some sleep,” he says in response.

“I’m not tired,” she insists, nose upturned to the air.

“It’s late, Sansa,” he practically growls, “Go to bed.”

“No,” she scowls stubbornly.

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Perhaps you haven’t changed completely,” he breathes, but his mouth twitches and there’s no malice in his words, “you’re still a brat.”  
  


* * *

  
Theon is brought to the courtyard the next day to face the Lord Commander’s justice.

He’s still a sorry state as he limps towards them, his wrists bound with rope and his cheeks hollow and gaunt and wet. He stops in front of them, his head hanging in permanent shame, and Jon places a hand on his shoulder.

“No more tears now, Theon,” he orders.

Theon doesn’t listen, a quiet sob falling from his lips.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he chokes out, before he corrects himself with a hastily muttered, “my Lord.”

“For what?” Jon asks, his voice unimpressed and low and so deliciously Northern.

“Everything.”

“My sister wishes for me to spare your life,” he says, not sounding happy about it, “is that what you think you deserve?”

“No,” he says quickly, immediately, “I deserve to die.”

Jon narrows his eyes, steel grey flickering over him. Then he reaches to his side and unsheathes Longclaw. Despite his insistence he wants to die, a flicker of fear passes through Theon’s eyes and Sansa holds her breath.

Jon lifts the sword and uses the blade to cut through the rope binding the man's wrists together. The cord easily falls apart under the steel and Theon’s dead hands fall to his sides. He winces slightly as the fingers of one hand come to circle the other wrist, gently stroking it.

Sansa can see Jon’s expression as he turns his back to Theon and begins to walk away. It’s disconcertedly blank and her blood turns cold.

Then, with his eyes on her, he easily flips his sword until the blade is behind him, and he thrusts it in and up through Theon’s stomach.

Her eyes widen nearly as much as Theon’s and she watches, horrified, as blood bubbles and bursts through his lips. Jon keeps his cool eyes on her as he wrenches his sword back, crimson rubies dripping from the blade onto the wet snow.

Theon shudders and grunts as he falls to his knees, locking dead eyes with her once more before he falls to the ground.

Sansa blinks, paralysed, as the men around them begin to disperse, shock written on every face.

Deep down, she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. She should have known better than to trust him — to trust _anyone._

Once, she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired Queen Cersei as a mentor. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head. Next, she had entrusted herself to Petyr Baelish and he had given her to the Boltons. Even Theon had turned her in when she tried to escape, nothing to show for it but failed dreams and the flayed skin of a poor old woman.

Each one had taught her the art of manipulation and deceit, yet here she is, fooled again.

Jon casually sheathes Longclaw, the blade still dripping with blood, and brushes past her. She wants to scream.

“You _said_ he could live,” she snarls, shaken and shocked and blind with rage. Her throat feels thick with tears, her heart pounding against her ribcage, and when she grabs him by the arm, he barely flinches.

The look he gives her is chilling, uncaring and indifferent to the cold.

“I changed my mind.”

She lets him go like he’s burned her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, Jon wears rings now. I know this might not be the take-away from this chapter, but it feels incredibly important🔥😏
> 
> As always, would love to hear your thoughts! I'm already super psyched by the passionate response this fic has gotten and I know this decision might not be popular, but remember Jon is as traumatised as Sansa is. He can't relinquish control either. This is a dark - pivotal word is "dark" here, please don't forget that! - fic all about desire and obsession and push and pull. And this might be what Sansa needs to get back on top...


	8. Chapter 8

Since Sansa was a young girl, people had told her she was beautiful.

As she brushed her auburn hair and looked into her eyes of Tully blue, her mother had warned her people would try to twist and use her beauty against her. She had told her that beauty fades, so she should be brave and intelligent and strong.

Over the years, her mother had been right and people had forged her beauty as a weapon.

Cersei had told her that a pretty face could be a dangerous thing, and Sansa believed her, because the Queen’s face was very pretty indeed. Littlefinger had used her because she looked like her mother, given her underhanded compliments that she was even lovelier, and of all the assaults they had inflicted upon her body, Ramsay and Joffrey always left her face untouched.

 _The face of Ned Stark_ _’_ _s daughter_ , they’d snarked.

Sansa knows she’s beautiful. She’s learning to embrace the fact and reclaim it for herself, but she thinks even if she were plain, she would still receive _those_ looks from the men at Castle Black. She doesn’t mean to be cruel, but Brienne is no beauty and she still receives the odd few, especially from the wildling Tormund.

The first few days after Jon thrusts his sword into Theon’s belly, Sansa refuses to leave her room. She leaves her food untouched and she doesn’t dress and when he knocks on her door, she throws things at him or slams it in his face.

Eventually, she thinks she might go mad with boredom, so she ventures into the courtyard. She knows she’s not looking her best, unbothered with her hair and clothes, but _still_ —

She gets those looks.

She walks quietly to the spot where Theon had died and she sees the evidence of Jon’s betrayal, pools of crimson staining the snow.

She feels her anger rise and bubble as she stares, and when a voice interrupts her reverie, she almost bares her teeth.

“Sorry you have to see that.”

She turns her head to see one of the recruits standing beside her. He’s around a head taller than her, with sandy blonde hair and a nice smile, and three years ago, she might have blushed at his attentions.

“What?” she snaps instead.

“The blood,” the boy elaborates, stiffening slightly at her harsh tone, “the Lord Commander didn’t tell us to clean it up.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Do you have to ask him before you take a shit too?”

He stares at her for a moment, shocked by her crudeness, before he barks a delighted laugh.

“I apologise,” he says after a beat, his eyes flickering over her unimpressed expression, “it’s just… _unusual_ to hear such words from a woman.”

“Is it?” she mutters dryly, “perhaps you do not know many women.”

“Not many like you, my lady, I’ll admit.”

Her mouth quirks without her permission and she drags her eyes to the bloodied snow again.

“Where did they take his body?” she asks quietly, her expression turning sour again.

The boy’s voice is soft, cautious, as he murmurs, “they took it into the woods and burned it, my lady.”

She closes her eyes, conflicting feelings searing through her blood. Mainly, she just feels _sad,_ because it might have been a lifetime ago, but he was Theon once. _Just_ Theon – Robb’s best friend, the boy she grew up with, who was the best at shooting arrows, and who always snuck her an extra lemon cake at supper with a cheeky grin.

He made his choice, made his mistakes, but she still feels sad it came to this.

“I’m Finn,” the boy next to her is suddenly saying, bringing her back to reality.

“Sansa,” she mumbles to the snow.

When she looks at him, his smile is gentle and friendly.

“I know who you are.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, deciding to alleviate her boredom by using him for entertainment.

“What’s your story?”

He shifts on his feet slightly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck uneasily. Sansa arches her brow expectantly, ready for anything. She doubts his past could shock her. She knows a man doesn’t come to the Night’s Watch for no reason.

“I come from around Raventree Hall in the Riverlands.”

Sansa is quiet for a moment, combing through her mind for what she was taught about the noble Houses of Westeros and their lands.

“Controlled by House Blackwood.”

“Aye,” he smiles and she wonders if he’s picked that up from the Northerners around him, “I made some mistakes, and I’ve paid the price.”

“What mistakes?” she asks bluntly.

He hesitates again and she fights the urge to roll her eyes, impatient and bored. As her gaze shifts, she catches sight of Jon and the Red Woman standing on the balcony. Melisandre’s body is angled towards him and his face is turned to her, deep in discussion, with his brows drawn together. His frown only intensifies when he catches sight of Sansa, speaking with Finn, and she watches his gloved hands curl over the edge of the balcony.

Melisandre’s still speaking, but Jon’s eyes are for Sansa, and he tips his head to the side in a silent question.

She narrows her gaze, throwing him a filthy look before returning her attention to Finn. She steps closer to him on purpose and watches Jon’s brow arch.

“I killed a nobleman,” Finn says eventually and it’s Sansa’s turn to quirk her brow, “it was self-defence.”

“I’m sure.”

“It was!” he insists, “although it was after he caught me in bed with his wife, and it was with his own dagger. I was sent to the Night's Watch, rather than face a hanging.”

His easy smile melts into a smirk then, a cheeky glint to his eye. Sansa purses her lips to contain her laugh and though she doesn’t mean for it to happen, her eyes keep flitting to Jon on the balcony.

He looks thoroughly unimpressed, his jaw clenching tight, and she watches a muscle near his ear tick. 

She steps closer to the boy because she craves the fire in Jon’s eyes when he’s jealous.

And he _is_ jealous, she can tell that much.

As Finn continues to speak, she continues to watch _him._ She sees his top lip curl into a snarl and she can’t hear what he’s saying but she can see the movement of his mouth and the way he holds a hand up to stop Melisandre talking. She sees the sour expression that flickers over the redhead’s face and the small nod she gives before walking away. She sees Jon’s hands curl even tighter around the balcony’s edge.

“I still have the dagger,” Finn grins, patting his side, “want to see?”

She _doesn’t_ particularly, but Jon’s still watching with that stony expression, so she nods and watches Finn pull the knife out.

“It’s smooth,” she purrs, running a finger along the cool steel edge.

She glances up at him through heavy lashes and watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. His eyes darken and she thinks men are easy to manipulate, so very predictable.

She thinks about pushing it further, perhaps placing a hand on his arm or his shoulder, but then she glances to the balcony and doesn’t see the point.

Jon’s gone.

* * *

Sansa smiles as Ghost bounds towards her, his tail waggling happily.

Once he’s at her feet, she leans down to stroke her fingers through his fur, detangling the knots. The white is matted and darkened with mud from where he’s been playing, his nose wet, and she laughs delightedly as he jumps up. His paws bound on her chest and she gently pushes him off, scratching behind his ear.

Ser Davos and Sam are walking through the courtyard too and they stop when they see her, giving her matching nods.

“Lady Sansa,” Ser Davos says in his thick flea-bottom accent.

“Ser Davos,” she smiles, “Sam.”

Sam flushes slightly under her attention, his cheeks turning pink, and he clears his throat before gesturing to the wolf.

“He likes you,” he says softly, “I’ve never seen him act like that with anyone but Jon.”

“I like him too,” Sansa says, her fingers still stroking through his fur, “when I was young, father and my brothers and Theon found Ghost’s mother in the woods, surrounded by her babies. Five of them, one for each Stark child, and Ghost for Jon — like we were meant to have them. My wolf was called Lady. I loved her very much, but I lost her.”

It hurts to think about. It hurts to remember Lady, lost like Greywind, and to wonder about the others. She doesn’t know where Summer, Nymeria and Shaggydog are — they’re as lost as their owners, her brothers and sister — and her chest aches in almost unbearable pain.

Wolves should be together, they belong together, and the symbolism isn’t lost on her.

She would pray for their return, but she doesn’t pray anymore, and Jon is lost too. He’s not really here, not the way he used to be, and she grieves for him.

“You’ll be together again, my lady,” Ser Davos seems to read her mind, his voice gentle, “I’m a simple man and I don’t know much, but I know that.”

Sansa scoffs, her eyes prickling with tears.

“How?”

“Because I know your brother,” he shrugs, “he’ll reunite you with your family.”

“He’s not my brother.”

“Aye, alright, half-brother.”

“No, not that either,” she says, shaking her head, “my brother was kind and honourable and good, but Jon is different now. There’s little left of the boy I knew. He said he’d help me, that the ones who hurt me would bleed and break, but he betrayed me. He doesn’t care about me. He’s a monster.”

“Be patient, Sansa,” Sam speaks this time, half disappointed, half imploring, “he’s been through a lot, and he’s in pain, but I truly believe you are the one to bring him back.”

“Why?” she fires back, fire in her eyes, “it’s not my job to fix him, Sam.”

Sam flushes a deeper red at this, wringing his hands nervously, and Ser Davos speaks next.

“Aye, that’s true,” he concedes with a tip of his head, “it’s not, and you have been hurt too. You’ve suffered more than any woman should have to suffer. But that’s why you understand, the way no-one else understands. You can fix each other. It’s not a crime to be weak, my lady.”

Sansa averts her gaze, feeling conflicted, and her vision blurs with unshed tears.

She _wants_ to understand Jon. She wants that connection, that burning under the skin, and she’s _felt_ it, had glimpses of it, but in the end, it’s always melted away. They’re like two flames, burning and dancing and flickering close, but floating away just before they can touch. It’s a push and pull, a struggle to get on top, and she’s tired too. Neither of them want to relinquish control, but they can’t continue like this either, locked in a tug of war.

Still, she refuses to listen to the two men in-front of her, turning away from them with Ghost snapping at her heels.

She won’t break. Won’t bend.

It might not be a crime, but she’s done being weak.

* * *

“How many times do I need to say it?” Sansa hisses that evening, as Jon stands by her door, “I don’t want to see you.”

Jon rolls his eyes, as though she’s being very dramatic, and he cuts straight to the chase by thrusting a scroll into her hands.

She takes it, scrunching it slightly, as she blinks and waits for him to say something. He merely quirks a cool brow instead, crossing his arms over his chest.

It’s her turn to roll her eyes and part of her wants to rip the parchment to pieces just to spite him, but she glances down at it instead. Her blood turns cold at the dark crimson seal, a flayed man of wax staring back at her.

Jon’s expression is deadly serious when she glances at him, devoid of any snark or humour.

“What is this?” she asks quietly.

“Read it.”

She listens for once, her eyes darting over the words.

She reads so frantically and quickly, she can only pick out random sentences.

_Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon._

_I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every wildling man, woman and babe living under your protection._

_You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister._

_You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother._

_Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North._

She clenches her jaw, determined to be strong, but grief kicks at her stomach like a mule because she _is_ scared and they’ll never get Rickon back now.

“I’m not going back there,” she states, her voice steady and strong.

He tips his head to the side, his expression calm.

“No, you’re not.”

He says it simply, like there was never any other choice, and she doesn’t know what she expected him to say. Perhaps a dark part of her wondered if he _would_ give her away, if he would trade her life for his precious wildlings, because she doesn’t _know_ him anymore.

He reads her mind.

“You don’t trust me,” he says evenly.

She blinks at him.

“Is that a joke?”

“If this is about Theon—”

She interrupts him with a bitter laugh and his eyes flash dangerously.

“You betrayed me,” she seethes, “You _lied_ to me.”

He shakes his head and his expression is still eerily calm.

“I never lied to you.”

“Get out.”

She grabs the edge of the door to slam it in his face but he stops her with an easy movement, his palm slamming on the wood. He’s stronger than her and she acquiesces with an irritated growl, taking a step back. He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him.

She walks to the middle of the room, still clutching the parchment in her trembling hand.

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, “I changed my mind.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

She wants to scream. She wants to claw his eyes out of his sockets, dig her nails into his skin, break him like he’s breaking her. His coolness, his reticence, is endlessly frustrating to her, and she’s sick of lingering two steps behind.

“You let me decide that man's fate. You gave me control, then you took it away. You said Theon could live, and you killed him in-front of me. It’s just a _game_ to you. You _know_ how powerless I’ve felt—”

“Aye, and what have I felt?” he bites back suddenly, his anger hot and flaring, “when Robb went to war and I couldn’t help him and he died without me? When they said Bran and Rickon had been tied up and burned, and father was killed, and you and Arya were lost? When I did what I thought was right, and got murdered for it?”

His temper pulses between them like a living thing, a rubber band that has been pulled too tight and snapped.

“I guess you felt powerless too, but—”

He interrupts her, an almost-growl falling from his lips.

“You’re not angry because I killed Theon,” he accuses, “you’re angry because you wanted control over me, because it’s just as much of a game to you – and you lost.”

She burns under the accusation, painful but halfway true. They clash desperately, and fighting with him makes her feel alive, but it makes her feel very tired too. They’re just both so broken, it’s not even funny, and she wonders what father would say if he could see them now.

“This is pointless,” she sighs after a beat, the paper scorching in her hands, “we shouldn’t be fighting. We should be discussing what we’re going to do about _this_.”

“You tell me,” he says dryly, “seeing as you have all the answers. You tell me how we get Rickon back.”

She ignores his jibe, running a hand over her face.

“We’ll never get Rickon back.”

“What?”

“He’s Ned Stark’s trueborn son,” she clarifies, “which makes him a far greater threat to Ramsay than _you_ , a bastard, or _me_ , a girl. As long as he lives, Ramsay’s claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means… he won’t live for very long.”

“You want to give up?” he says in disbelief.

“I’m not saying that,” she shakes her head, “but I don’t see how we’ll take him back.”

“We could take _Winterfell_ back,” he says, like it’s easy, “we could go home.”

She arches a brow.

“You know I’d like nothing more,” she yearns for simpler days at Winterfell, when they were all happy and safe and together, “but aren’t you supposed to not involve yourself in things like that?”

“My watch ended when they killed me,” he replies dully, “I only stayed because of you.”

“Me?” she repeats, confused.

“Aye, I could hardly leave once you came riding into Castle Black. I knew I had to get you home.”

His words unsettle her, a strange warmth prickling her skin.

“It will be difficult,” he’s continuing in that gruff voice, “but Northern houses are loyal. They will fight for us if we ask – and we have good men here.”

Something dark sparks to life inside her, something she shouldn’t care about, not right now, but she says it anyway.

“Men like Finn?”

Something flickers behind his eyes, dark and furious, and his jaw ticks.

“Stay away from boys, Sansa.”

“You just said they were good.”

His jaw ticks again.

“Not for you.”

“They’re good _to_ me though,” she shrugs.

“They better fucking not be.”

An excited rush sparks through her at his dangerous tone, heating her skin and making her flush. She wants more, wants to push him more, and she bites her bottom lip.

“You’re full of it,” she murmurs with a smirk, taking a step towards him, “you’re jealous.”

She says it like a fact, not a question, and as she closes the gap between them, she notices the way his eyes are shining slightly darker. His jaw is still clenched and his cold, steel grey gaze flickers to her. He just watches her, as she continues to press him.

“You like to pretend you feel nothing, that you _saw_ nothing on the other side so you came back only half alive, but I know better. You might not laugh or love or play anymore, but you _feel,_ Jon. I know it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches but it's not quite a smile.

“You don’t know anything.”

“Really?” she quirks a brow, her eyes flickering from his own to his lips and back again, “so it doesn’t bother you to think of me with Finn like that? His lips kissing me, his hands touching me, moving over and inside me…”

She takes his hand, moulding him like clay, and places it on her chest. She trails it up until his fingers splay over the hollow of her throat. She shudders against the cold kiss of steel as his rings touch her flushed skin.

“Touching me like this?” she murmurs, her tone dropping, molten desire pooling in the pit of her stomach, “I know he’s said those vows, but I don’t think it would take much to break them, he seemed pretty interested…”

“Don’t push me, Sansa.”

He practically growls it, all husky and low and Northern, and it sparks heat between her thighs. His fingers tighten around her throat, choking her slightly, and _gods,_ she’s supposed to be angry at him and thinking about poor Rickon, so why does she want him so much?

“Admit you’re jealous.”

His eyes flash, his pupils dilating to leave nothing but blackness, and his hand tightens around her throat again.

“Aye, what if I am?” he murmurs, surprising her slightly and she fights to keep it from showing on her face, “what if I said I would never let him touch you, never let _any_ of them touch you, because you’re not for them, you’re for me. What if I said I wanted to hold your throat just like this and fuck you until you came all over my cock? _My pretty, highborn sister and my bastard cock._ That it’s all I’ve been thinking about since the day you came back to me?”

She can’t suppress her shudder, a little moan caught in her throat. Slick gathers between her legs, so hot she can feel it, and she rubs her thighs together to relieve the ache.

“You’re all talk, little girl,” he says lowly when she doesn’t reply, amusement lining his tone.

She smirks, because his eyes are black and he keeps looking at her mouth and he’s not so hard to read.

“If you say so, Jon.”  
  


* * *

  
Finn never speaks to her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for my own version of the Battle of the Bastards... Littlefinger may or may not be making an appearance... hope the (kinda) slow burn isn't too boring for people? I feel like these two are all about the tension...


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa’s walking with Brienne, chatting about Evenfall Hall and the few things the taller woman misses about Tarth, when there’s a loud crash.

Given her history, Sansa’s more naturally inclined to flinch at sudden noises, but it makes Brienne jump too and her hand instinctively flies to the hilt of her sword.

There’s another crash, another bang, and through the chaos, Sansa hears two voices.

She recognises one as Jon’s — a low, rumbling brogue — but she’s never heard it quite so furious. She can’t make out his words, but the tone cuts like ice, and the other man sounds quieter and chastened. Sansa can’t see, but she assumes the crashes are coming from her brother, as he takes his fury out on the furniture.

A chill spreads over Sansa’s skin like a blanket. Since they’ve been reunited, she’s become accustomed to his icy expressions, the way he holds himself like Valerian steel – cool, unaffected.

That was the thing with this new Jon.

He could be so charming, it was easy to forget he was dangerous.

The guards outside Jon’s solar stare straight ahead, their jaws clenched tight. Sansa sees them flinch when the wood rattles behind them, Jon undoubtedly throwing something at the door.

Ignoring the way Brienne hisses _Lady Sansa_ through her teeth, she takes a step forward and tries to listen through the wood. The guards continue to stare ahead and her brows furrow, her eyes flickering from them to the door and back again.

“Are you deaf or just pretending not to hear?” she whispers to the one to her right.

He doesn’t answer.

She rolls her eyes, leaning in further.

When her ear is practically pressed against the weathered wood, she’s surprised to realise the other voice belongs to the gentle Samwell Tarly.

Her frown intensifies and she shushes Brienne with a quick wave of her hand when the woman tries to protest.

“I need you here, Sam,” Jon sounds more like Ghost than himself, his voice a low, northern growl.

Sansa quirks a brow, surprised to hear him admit something like this. He likes to pretend he feels nothing, but _need_ is certainly a feeling.

“I’ll be more use to you as a Maester,” Sansa has to concentrate harder to hear Sam’s voice and it sounds quiet and sad, “more use to everyone now that Maester Aemon’s gone. The Citadel has the world’s greatest library. I’ll learn about history, strategy, healing… and other things. Things that will help when they come.”

 _They_.

Sansa wracks her brain for what he could mean before she remembers Tormund’s words.

_You know what we're facing, Davos. You know what's coming for us and that he's the only one who can stop it._

She doesn’t quite make out Jon’s muffled reply, but it’s loud and angry.

“Calm down, Jon,” she hears Sam’s response, his voice tired and imploring, “this isn’t you. Remember who you were before.”

“That man is dead.”

“He’s not,” Sam tries to insist, but Sansa’s not so sure, “he’s just lost.”

Her lips twitch into a melancholy smile, touched by Sam’s concern for his friend. She doesn’t hear Jon’s response, but he’s not breaking things anymore so that must be a good sign. She has to press her ear harder to the door to hear now they’ve quietened down, and Sam continues speaking.

“You’ll be fine,” he tries to soothe, like he’s approaching an easily angered animal, “you have plenty of people here to advise you. The Red Woman, Tormund, Edd, even your sister.”

She finds it surprising that he would think of her, would consider her a useful advisor. Since their reunion, it feels like all her and Jon have done is play games with each other, toy with each other, and she wonders if she’d be able to give him more than that. If he’d be able to give _her_ more than that.

Maybe this is the new normal for them, a push and pull, a dangerous game drenched in blood.

It’s silent for a moment before Jon speaks, so quiet now she barely hears him.

“You’re abandoning me.”

He says — and Sansa’s chest feels too tight.

He sounds like that boy again, the one who clung desperately to any scraps of love, who went to the Wall and never came home.

“I’ll come back,” Sam promises, “if you _order_ me to stay, I will. But you know I won’t be able to protect Gilly…. and you know if anything happens to her, it’ll kill me. So, you can say no, but… don’t say no.”

Sansa taps her foot as she waits for Jon’s reply.

Brienne tries to intercept again, grumbling that eavesdropping on the Lord Commander is not appropriate, and Sansa practically hisses at her.

“Fine. You’ll leave in the morning,” she hears Jon growl eventually, a deep rumble that comes from his chest, “now get out.”

Sam clearly doesn’t need to be told twice; Sansa barely has time to jump back from the door before it’s opening and he’s on the other side.

His eyes widen at the sight of her and she throws him a tense smile, stepping back to stand next to Brienne.

He nods at her shortly, the torn, sad expression clear to see on his face, and he turns the corner, out of sight. 

“You should not be snooping, my lady,” Brienne mumbles disapprovingly again, her hand still poised on the hilt of her sword.

“ _You_ should relax a little, Brienne,” Sansa says dryly, rolling her eyes, “you’ll drive yourself to an early grave.”

Before the taller woman can reply, Jon follows Sam through the door. His fury seems to chill the air around him, making them all bristle and tense, and he doesn’t even look at her as he storms past.

“Replace it all.”

He growls to the stiff guards — and then he’s gone.

* * *

  
As Sansa’s hand travels down her stomach to between her thighs, it’s Jon’s face she sees.

 _Of course_ it is — the whole thing is depressingly predictable — because it’s _him_ and it’s _her_ and she’s become a slave to his affection. It’s a jarring sort of sensation, having been so indifferent to him before, but she knows she’s not alone in it. He’s _told_ her that he’s taken himself in hand and spent his seed over her and the image sets her teeth on edge.

Her fingers dive straight to her clit, impatient and frustrated, her breath hitching as she surrenders to it.

She clenches her jaw as she thinks about him fucking her, her bastard half-brother. She rubs her clit and imagines him exploring her from the inside out, searching for any spark of light left inside her with every thrust he makes between her legs. He probably won’t find any, just the scars and wounds Ramsay left behind, but maybe that’s okay.

He’s dark and empty too, hollowed out, and two halves could make a whole.

She thinks of the promises he’s made her—

_You want the ones who hurt you to bleed, to break? I will help you._

_Why should she decide? Because I am your Lord and I command it._

_I’m not going back there. No, you’re not._

_I knew I had to get you home._

—and feels herself approaching the edge.

She can’t quite get there, her fingers working quickly and efficiently, if a little clinically. She tries to think of something else, someone else, but he’s under her skin. She almost wants to take a knife and cut down to the bone, just fucking _rip him out,_ but he’s seeped into every pore. There’s no extracting him now.

She’s ready to come, teetering on the edge, and against her permission, her mind envisages his cock in her mouth. It infuriates her, but sometimes it’s the thought of _her_ on her knees that gets her off. She thinks of pleasing him, of letting him fuck her mouth until she gags and he calls her a good girl.

She pushes two fingers inside herself and her breath quickens and there’s a thin layer of sweat covering her skin and she’s _so_ _close_ , but she can’t push herself over. As soon as she approaches the edge, it’s like she hits a barrier, the pleasure ebbing and fading away.

She tries to build it up again, and she does, but the same thing happens once, twice, three times over and—

A knock on the door almost makes her scream.

She slumps back onto the pillow, her thighs falling open, wanting to sob. Frustration strangles her throat, her limbs screaming in protest at the denial of her release, and she throws the covers off her. She grabs one of Melisandre’s gowns and throws it around her shoulders.

Tying the belt a little too aggressively, she storms over to the door.

She swings it open, fire in her eyes.

“ _What?_ ”

Jon’s brow quirks at her hiss.

“Good evening to you too, Sansa.”

His voice is dry, sarcastic, and Sansa’s eyes narrow, her body still tense and quivering. It doesn’t help that it’s the object of her fantasies on the other side of the door, this man that reads her like a book, seems to know every move she’s going to make before she makes it.

“What do you want?” she asks, attempting to keep her voice even. She can feel her heart pounding against her chest and she’s paranoid by the silly notion that he can hear it, could use it against her.

The corner of his mouth tips up.

“I was going to talk to you about what you heard today, when you were _spying_ ,” he doesn’t sound annoyed, his voice lined with amusement, and his dark eyes flicker over her, “but I sense you are… distracted.”

Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly painfully aware that her nipples are pebbled and her thighs so wet they slide against each other. She tries to hide it, her chin tipped stubbornly.

But Jon’s steely gaze is narrowed, his eyes curious as they take in her flushed cheeks.

“Sam’s going to the Citadel,” she shrugs, “what is there to talk about?”

She hardly knows Sam, so she doesn’t particularly care. Her concerns revolve solely around winning back Winterfell now, saving Rickon and destroying Ramsay. If he wants to strategize about that, she’s more than willing, but if not, she’d rather get back to what she was doing before he rudely interrupted her.

“He’s going to Oldtown to study and replace Aemon as the new Maester of the Watch,” Jon elaborates, his hands flexing at his sides like the reminder irritates him.

“That must be difficult,” she at least tries to be sympathetic, “I know Sam’s your friend, I understand you don’t want to lose him. I don’t care about your little outburst, if that’s what you wanted to talk about. We have a lot to discuss tomorrow, drawing up battle plans, strategizing, working out how we’re going to take down Ramsay. You should get some rest.”

He hums, his eyes sweeping over her again, before he smiles like he’s won something.

“Aye, we won’t talk about it then,” he concedes smoothly, “but _you’re_ not going to get any rest if you can’t come.”

The bluntness of his words causes her to flush, her shoulders tensing.

“I can show you,” he continues, his voice dropping a tone and turning huskier, “if you like.”

“Show me?” she repeats, her eyes inexplicably drawn to his mouth.

He licks his lips.

“How to touch yourself,” he arches that brow again, tipping his head to the side, "I can help you come."

She believes him, knows he can do it, and maybe if she wasn’t already so close to the edge, she’d have the sense to say no. But she _is_ , her body coiled tight like a spring, desperate for release, so she opens her door and gestures for him to come inside.

A burning creeps under her skin as he brushes past her, smelling like ale and smoke and something deliciously masculine. His very presence makes her feel like she’s standing on a knife’s edge, something dangerous and sharp.

The click of the latch as she closes the door is deafening and he just _waits,_ eerily calm with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Show me,” he orders evenly, gesturing with one hand to the bed.

Her heart starts to beat faster.

“I thought _you_ were going to show _me_ ,” she says stubbornly.

His mouth twitches cooly under his beard.

“I’d like to see what you were doing first.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat, her mouth suddenly feeling unbearably dry. He’s still staring at her, that eyebrow quirked, and the battle between them flares to life once more.

She sets her jaw, her resolve hardening. His eyes flicker again from her to the bed and she decides to change the course, to do something that will surprise even him. She waits for him to look at her again and then, keeping her hands steady, she pushes the robe off her shoulders.

It flutters to the ground, a lavender veil between them, ripped away.

Another point of no return.

If she were anyone else… anyone other than the person who’s coming to know him better than she knows herself… perhaps she’d miss the way his expression falters. She’d miss the slight clench to his jaw, the way his eyes flare before he gets himself in check.

He takes her in, his dark eyes sweeping unapologetically across her collarbone, down to her breasts and pausing at the patch of damp red between her thighs.

When he drags his gaze back to hers, his eyes are practically black.

Desire flares in the pit of her belly at his expression, all dark and stony and _wanting._

She turns her back to him, awarding him an eyeful of her shapely behind, before she lowers herself to the bed. She doesn’t bother putting on a show, emphasising her long legs or toying with a coy expression.

 _Seduction_ isn’t necessary; she’s already burning from the inside out, one step from madness, just by being around him.

She lays down and spreads her legs, her wetness glittering on her thighs in the soft candlelight.

His movements are smooth as he approaches her, not angry or rushed or sinister like Ramsay.

She closes her eyes against the memories.

_He’s not Ramsay._

_He’s Jon,_ she reminds herself as she blocks them out, _you’re safe._

It might seem insane, to feel safe with a man such as him, but she _does._

In the tiny cot, he lays down next to her, his body angled towards her and propped up on one forearm. She can hear the staccato breaths her lungs send out, penetrating the silence, and his own breathing is frustratingly quiet and even.

The atmosphere blisters, time stretching out between them, and she recognises this as the turning point. If she doesn’t stop now, if she lets him stay and starts to touch herself, there’ll be no going back.

She’s too far gone to stop.

Her hand darts straight between her thighs, a surprised noise escaping her throat when his fingers curl around her slim wrist to stop her.

“Slow,” he rumbles, his fingers forming a tight cuff and keeping her arm anchored against her stomach, “you need to learn how to wait.”

She frowns.

 _Waiting_ has never been her strong point and her expression twists into a scowl.

He knows this, his mouth quirking in amusement.

“So stubborn,” he murmurs fondly, his hand slowly lifting her wrist. As he moves it up her body, he twists it until their fingers entwine. Then, he holds their hands over her breast.

“Start here," he orders, "with your tits."

He lets her go, drawing his hand back, and she aches from the loss.

Her heart feeling too big for her chest, she covers her breast with her palm. She feels the heat of his eyes on her and she gives a squeeze before her fingers travel to her hardened nipple, tweaking it between her thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t tell her to stop, so she doesn’t, paralysed and rooted to the spot. Little sparks of pleasure shoot from her nipple to between her legs, the warm sensation crawling up her body.

“How does it feel?”

“Good,” the word sounds strange, her voice muffled and too far away, like he’s ripped it from her throat without her permission, “I want more.”

He doesn’t look surprised.

“Touch yourself, then,” he orders, low and even and far too casual, as his eyes flicker between her thighs, "you have the prettiest cunt."

 _This is it_ , she thinks, _I’m going to die._

Her hand flies from her breast to between her legs and she wants to growl in frustration when he releases a husky chuckle and grabs her wrist again.

“Slow,” he says. He separates her index finger from the rest and with his own covering it, encourages her to rub tiny circles on her clit, “don’t rush.”

He guides her to spread her wetness with two fingers and stroke slowly. Once she’s found the rhythm, he draws his hand back and lets her continue. His fingers dance their way to her inner thigh, gently curving around it.

His hands burn where they touch her skin, igniting a body that’s already on fire, and she lets out a soft moan.

“What do you want?” he asks, “use your words.”

Her lips fall open but all that comes out is a little gasp. She strums her fingers a little faster, her eyes flickering to his mouth. She wonders what it would feel like to kiss him, to feel that unbearably pretty mouth down _there._ She knows he’d be good, that he’d kiss like a conqueror, a warrior.

“Do you want to stop?” he arches a brow when she doesn’t reply, and his voice is low and teasing, because he knows full well that she doesn’t. 

She wonders if he’s asking solely to tease, or to test the waters, to check she’s okay. She doesn’t let herself dwell on the latter, an ache pulling in her chest.

“What then?”

“You,” she gasps out heatedly as her legs splay open a little wider and his hand curls tighter around her thigh, “I want you.”

“My mouth?” he asks, leaning in slightly only to draw back before their lips can touch, “my hands, my cock?”

She practically keens at the word, her toes curling into the sheets.

“All of it,” she moans, her cunt clenching around nothing, “I want you to fuck me.”

His already black eyes flash, glinting with something dangerous. If she wasn’t sure he was affected by this, she is now. Her wetness is seeping onto her inner thighs, glistening on her sweat-slicked skin, and his fingers slip where they grip her. They twitch slightly with the force of his restraint before moving between her legs, taking her hand and making her stop.

She almost sobs — but then he’s encouraging her to ease two fingers inside herself.

“Slow,” he reminds her.

“You’re evil.”

The smirk he gives her is _very_ evil.

“Why must you make me beg?” she whispers, feeling a rock in the pit of her stomach, “you could fuck me.”

“I could, and I might.”

Her desire flares at the almost-promise.

“Now?”

“No,” he says evenly and she wants to cry, “ _now_ you’re going to come on your fingers and have something to imagine next time.”

“If you put your mouth there, I could imagine that.”

“Aye, you could,” he says roughly, “perhaps I’d like it too.”

She pushes her fingers deeper inside her, her other hand fisting the material of his tunic at his chest, dragging him closer.

“Perhaps,” she breathes, “or I could keep imagining what I normally do – sucking your cock until you cum down my throat.”

 _“Gods_.”

“Ah yes, praise the Gods…” she sighs, “they brought you back to me.”

She can feel her arousal spilling down to her wrist, wetter than she ever thought possible, and she removes her fingers. She returns them to her slit, tracing her pulsing clit.

“Back to you…” he repeats, leaning in closer, “to worship at your cunt?”

“ _Yes,_ ” she moans, “if you like.”

She’ll be that for him – be his anchor, his obsession, his religion, his _anything_ – as long as he keeps talking to her like this.

She turns her head, their faces inches apart, and his eyes flash again. His gaze drifts from her eyes to the hand working her cunt and back again. 

“Come here,” he husks finally, pinching her chin and drawing her closer, “let me kiss you. I need to taste you.”

Excitement snaps at her heels and there’s that word again – _need –_ a strong emotion from such a reticent man. But he doesn’t seem reticent now, as he gives a little growl and _finally_ kisses her.

Their mouths connect, sliding together, all tongues, teeth, heat and passion. He _does_ kiss like a conqueror, just like she suspected, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip and demanding entry. Her own comes out to meet it, entwining and licking inside the hot cavern of his mouth. He swallows the little moan she makes, her fingers strumming faster and harder between her thighs, desperate for release.

His hand goes back to her thigh, fingers curling possessively, carving finger-shaped bruises so different from the ones left by Ramsay. She welcomes this, welcomes the possession, and the backs of his fingers brush against hers as she rubs her clit.

“Faster now,” he pulls back to rumble against her mouth, his teeth briefly tugging on her bottom lip, “that’s it… such a good girl.”

She chokes on a sob and she’s _so close_ and obviously it’s because of those words.

“You like that?” he notices delightedly, his voice rough, “you like being my good girl?”

 _Gods help her_ , she does. She’s utterly possessed by him and too far gone to care. He kisses her again, slanting his mouth roughly over hers. He pulls back again, eyes dark as they flicker over her face, like he just wants to watch her break apart.

She almost wants to ask if she can come, wants to beg, but she’s scared he’ll give her that smirk and refuse her.

He doesn’t.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?” he asks gently, his mouth brushing hers. She nods frantically, her limbs stiffening, so very close to the edge.

She doesn’t wait for him to give her permission. His mouth captures hers again in a heated kiss and she flies into an orgasm so intense, she swears she sees stars. Her vision whitens, her mouth opening in a silent scream, a sob of pleasure caught in her throat. He catches her as she fractures, the backs of his fingers trailing softly up and down her inner thigh.

He waits for her to come down from it and once she’s stopped trembling, he kisses her once more on the mouth.

He pulls away when she tries to deepen the kiss, sliding her tongue against his.

“Better?” he asks cooly.

She laughs — a small, almost hysterical sound.

She shuffles down a bit, her forehead falling in exhaustion against his chest. She feels it rumble under her with the weight of his husky chuckle, and she hears the squeak of leather as her hands curl the material of his jerkin into fists.

 _Better_ , but _worse_ — because now she’ll never be able to touch herself without imagining him, ever again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	10. Chapter 10

“I must say they look good on you,” Melisandre quips, her brow arching as her eyes sweep over Sansa’s form, “I am almost jealous.”

“What?”

“My dresses,” the Red Woman clarifies, “they fit you well.”

Sansa blinks for a moment before she shakes herself out of it.

“Oh right. Yes, thank you,” she mutters somewhat awkwardly, before she attempts to brush past her. The balcony is narrow and a strange shudder passes through her when their shoulders touch. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy and the woman demands her attention again.

“You and your brother seem close.”

Her words are innocent, her tone is anything but, and Sansa briefly closes her eyes. Annoyance sparking through her veins, she fakes a smile and turns to face her.

The man in question stands below them, training his men in the courtyard. The redheads come to stand side by side to watch him, their hands curling over the balcony’s edge.

“I suppose we _have_ grown closer,” it’s quite the understatement and Sansa’s cheeks burn a little hotter, “since we’ve been reunited.”

Melisandre’s mouth twitches, like she’s in on a secret she’s not sharing. She's greatly unsettling, an age-old wisdom shining behind her eyes, and Sansa doesn’t like it.

“He is an impressive man,” she says, her eyes focused on him, “remarkable, really.”

Sansa arches a brow, her gaze flitting from Jon to the Red Woman and back again. She watches him disarm Edd and two other recruits, barely breaking a sweat. He moves like he’s dancing, graceful and lithe. With an easy block, Edd is knocked onto his back, landing in the snow with an unceremonious grunt.

Jon grins, extending his hand and pulling him up with a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

A younger boy tries next, coming at him from behind, but Jon easily knocks away the blade of the sparring sword with his own.

“Your feet should be further apart,” Sansa hears him urge, using his sword to tap the boy’s feet until he spreads them, “you don’t want to lose your balance. That’s good. Now pivot as you deliver the stroke, get all your weight behind the blade.”

The boy’s brows furrow in concentration as he rears back and lunges again.

“Good,” Jon says again, his expression casual as he matches him step for step, “if you want to stay on top, you have to move the line of attack. When an opponent comes at you, step off the line like this,” he steps to the side, “creating a new one. Every time you do, they will be forced to adjust."

Sansa and Melisandre watch quietly as the men continue to dance around each other.

To the boy’s credit, he matches Jon well but eventually, he takes his eyes off him, losing his focus for only a moment. Jon takes advantage, sweeping his feet out from under him, and he lands on the ground in the same way as Edd.

The sparring swords are not made of steel, but _still_ — the boy’s eyes flash with fear as Jon places his under his chin and tilts it up.

“Never take your eyes off the enemy,” he says coolly, “never let yourself get distracted.”

There’s something attractive about the way he commands attention, how he trains and spars and sweats with his men. He’s not a pampered Lord who lounges on the side-lines, afraid to get his hands dirty. He fights with his men, dines with his men, _bleeds_ with his men.

He’ll bleed for _her_ , she has no doubt, when they take back Winterfell.

“He was always a good fighter,” Sansa concedes with a slight tip of her head, “he’d spend hours beating a straw man in the stables while the rest of us ate.”

“Yes, he is a true warrior,” Melisandre quips, sounding far too starry-eyed for Sansa’s taste, “he has to be – he is the Prince That Was Promised.”

Sansa turns to her, her brows pulling into a frown.

“The _what_?”

“I used to think it was Stannis,” Melisandre's voice grows introspective then, tinged with disappointment and a little regret, “that he was Azor Ahai reborn again. He would stand against the darkness and if he failed, the world would fail with him. But I was wrong. It was never Stannis. It was Jon Snow.”

Sansa turns her eyes back to her brother, watches him sweep his damp curls away from his face.

“I highly doubt Stannis would care that much about winning back Winterfell,” she says, misunderstanding what Melisandre means by _the darkness._

The Red Woman laughs — a little sardonic, amused sound.

She hates it.

“The true enemy is not Ramsay Bolton,” she says, causing Sansa’s anger to flare because this woman doesn’t _know_ him, doesn’t know what he did to her or what he’s capable of, “the true _fight_ lies north of here, not south.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sansa mutters, feeling impatient.

“You _have_ heard of Azor Ahai, yes?”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes, because she _obviously_ hasn’t, and she doesn’t like being made to feel stupid.

“No,” she says simply.

“He was the hero who wielded a burning sword called Lightbringer,” Melisandre starts loftily, “it is said that there will come a day after a long summer, when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dreaded hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.”

“And you think this hero is Jon?” Sansa asks, “and the darkness… a threat from beyond the wall?”

“I _know_ it is,” she says confidently, “he is born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone.”

Sansa stares at her, trying to make sense of her words.

“But you _knew_ it was Stannis before?” she says dully, pointedly.

Melisandre bristles, her mouth pinching in distaste. Sansa thinks she’s full of it, hating the way she speaks in riddles, hating the way she _looks_ at Jon, like he hung the moon and stars.

 _Mine,_ the wolf inside her growls.

It’s something primal and possessive, stirring to life.

“I was wrong,” the Red Woman says simply, “I am not wrong about this.”

She takes a step back, clasping her hands delicately behind her back.

“Be careful, young Sansa,” she says, her voice dropping an octave, “Azor Ahai had a woman too.”

Sansa’s blood turns cold and she wonders how much Melisandre sees.

She tries to keep her face expressionless, but she gets the impression if the Red Woman wants to know something, she will know it, and hiding is futile.

“Did he now?” she attempts to be casual, uncaring, “how interesting.”

Melisandre’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk. 

“Yes — a woman he had, and a woman he destroyed,” she says, “they called her Nissa Nissa, and he drove his sword into her living heart.”

Sansa swallows, the air heavy with implication, and her throat suddenly feels very dry.

“Why did he do that?” she finds herself asking against her will.

Melisandre smiles again, something shrewd and calculated, and Sansa recognises her words for their intended depth.

“He wanted her soul.”  
  


* * *

 _  
You need to learn how to wait,_ Jon's husky voice rumbles in her ear.

Sansa tries to listen, replays the memory in her mind over and over, as her fingers stroke idly between her thighs.

It’s getting ridiculous — _absurd,_ really — how often she succumbs to this desire now. Before Castle Black, she had touched herself once, maybe twice, in her entire life. Now she rarely goes an evening without putting her hands on her body.

 _You have the prettiest cunt,_ his Northern brogue washes over her like a blanket. 

She remembers how he’d kissed her, how soft and good and _right_ his mouth had felt on hers. She’d waited a long time to feel it, both of them dancing around this thing between them, and now it feels like the floodgates have been opened. 

She takes it slow, teases herself like he’d taught her, and molten heat stirs in the pit of her belly.

A knock on the door interrupts her.

She sighs, knowing it’s most likely Jon, and she tugs the skirts of her dress down.

She glances in the mirror as she walks past, trying to make herself look presentable. She ignores the second knock and uses her fingers to comb through the knots in her hair. Her eyes look slightly glassy, her chest rising and falling too fast with the speed of her breaths, when she suddenly realises — she _wants_ him to know.

She wants to kiss him again.

She wants him to watch her again, to teach her and guide her and maybe touch her himself this time.

She takes a breath and then she opens the door.

As expected, Jon is on the other side, his hands clasped behind his back. His dark grey eyes flicker the length of her body before his mouth twitches.

“I’m holding a meeting to discuss our strategy for facing Bolton,” he cuts straight to the chase, “I thought perhaps you might like to join?”

She nods, feeling a strange sense of emotion strangle her throat. After everything that happened with Theon, it means a lot that he would include her. It’s what she deserves, Winterfell is hers as much as it’s his, even more so. She shouldn’t be denied a part in the fight just because of what is – or isn’t – between her legs.

It’s only _right_ , but _still—_

She’s grateful.

“Yes,” she murmurs, “I would like that very much.”

He tips his head in acknowledgement and she prepares to leave when he stops her.

“Sansa?” he asks, his tone low and questioning.

“Yes?”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze narrowing like he's trying to figure her out. 

“Have you been touching yourself?” he asks eventually.

She blinks at his question, her eyes drawn to his mouth.

She doesn’t back down, doesn’t shrink or let heat rise into her cheeks. She stands her ground, straightening her back, and she’s completely unapologetic when she answers:

“Yes.”

He seems pleased by her response, his mouth tipping into a smirk.

“Were you doing it how I taught you?” he asks, taking her hand. His thumb swipes over the back of it. It’s an innocent and casual gesture, but heat prickles over her skin nonetheless, desire flaring to life inside her.

“Yes,” she hears her own voice deeper and huskier, her fingers itching to drag him to her.

“In the middle of the day?” he asks, arching a brow, “how very wanton.”

She narrows her eyes.

“You’re the one who wanted to _teach_ me,” she insists, “are you mocking me now?”

He shakes his head and the smile he gives her is strangely sincere.

“That would be terribly cruel of me, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” she agrees, “perhaps when the meeting is done, you can continue to further my education.”

He gives a wolfish smile, seemingly pleased by her fire.

“Come. Let’s discuss,” he orders eventually, letting go of her hand and taking a step back, “then we’ll see if I’m feeling generous.”  
  


* * *

  
Brienne, Edd, Davos and Tormund are already seated when they enter, their eyes scanning over a large map on the table. Tokens indicating houses lay scattered on the surface and Davos and Tormund seem to be muttering to each other.

“We need more men,” Davos says bluntly as Jon and Sansa take their seats, “the Umbers and Karstarks have declared for Ramsay. This means we have already lost two of the most powerful houses in the North.”

“Forget the Umbers. Rickard was supposed to be safe with them,” Sansa insists, the reminder of it causing grief and despair to kick at her stomach, “instead, they gave him to Ramsay. As far as I’m concerned, they’re our enemies. But we could still sway the Karstarks and there are other Northern houses - Glover, Mormont, Cerwyn, Mazin, Hornwood, and a handful more. Together, they could equal or even surpass the others.”

“We lost the Karstarks the moment Robb removed Rickard’s head,” Jon dismisses, leaning over the table to move one of the tokens, “but the others… you may have a point. We could start small and build.”

Davos sighs, his shoulders slumping in what already looks like defeat.

“You’re not from here, Ser Davos, so you can’t possibly know…” Sansa starts quietly, “…but Northerners are loyal. The Stark name _means_ something here. People will risk everything for it. Jon is the son of the last true Warden of the North. They’ll fight for him if he asks.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he backs down for now, and Jon turns to Tormund.

“How many men do you have?”

The wildling shrugs, clicking his tongue as he thinks.

“That can march and fight?” he says eventually, “two thousand, maybe two and a half. The rest are children or too old.”

“Ramsay has double that,” Sansa mutters, feeling a little defeated for the first time. She shakes it off, the anxiety and worry, because she wants to go home and she wants Ramsay to pay and Rickon is counting on her.

She has to find a way to make this work.

“What about Lord Baelish?” she says eventually, an idea sparking to life, “the Knights of the Vale could make up the numbers.”

“No,” Jon says almost immediately, his voice a low growl. It makes the rest of them look at him, confusion and surprise written all over their faces, “you told me he sold you to the Boltons.”

She hasn’t divulged much of what’s happened to her, but she’s told him that much, and she finds herself regretting it.

Men can be so stubborn, so unforgiving and pigheadedly protective, and despite everything, Jon is still a man.

“I’m not saying I _forgive_ him,” she insists, “but the Vale could make all the difference.”

“No,” he repeats simply.

“Why?” she bites out through gritted teeth, “if I can put what he did aside, why can’t you?”

“Because Petyr Baelish does nothing for free,” Jon says, “there would be a catch, we’d be in his debt. It’s not a deal I’m willing to make. We’ll find another way.”

Sansa rolls her eyes but sits back in her chair, angrily drumming her fingers on the surface of the table.

“Are you going to meet with Bolton?” Brienne asks, her face etched in that permanent frown, “to discuss terms?”

Jon nods.

“Aye — though I don’t suppose it will make much difference.”

“What are you going to do?” Edd speaks then.

“Nothing rash. He has Rickon,” he says like that’s reason enough to be cautious and Sansa finds it interesting, given his supposed apathy towards everything, “I’ll just test the waters, see if he wants to engage me in a fight, one on one, rather than start a battle.”

“He’ll never do that,” Sansa insists because she knows him better than any of them, better than all of them put together, and he _won’t._

“Because he’s a cunt?” Tormund asks bluntly.

“Well yes,” she concedes, “but mainly because he’s a coward.”

The letter he had sent lays in the middle of the table, as though it could contain hidden secrets on how to defeat him between its words. Sansa tries not to look at it, focusing on Tormund instead as he speaks again.

“What about that strange woman, kissed by fire?” he rumbles, “doesn’t she have any bright ideas?”

Sansa scoffs, drawing attention to herself.

She turns to Jon, her tone dry.

“You are aware she thinks you some sort of prophet?”

Jon’s brow cocks but his expression is disinterested.

“Aye, she’s mentioned it.”

She stares at him for a moment before she lets out an incredulous scoff.

“And you don’t think it’s strange?” she tries to push him, “or interesting… or _noteworthy_ in any way?”

He shrugs.  
  
“Melisandre talks a lot,” he dismisses, leaning over the table to grab Ramsay’s letter, “I tend to drift off.”He starts to mutter to Davos next to him, seemingly done with this topic, and Sansa slumps back in her chair.

Her mind is working in overdrive, thoughts sparking too quickly for her to sort through them, and Jon’s gruff voice brings her back to reality again.

“We’ll petition the Northern houses,” he declares, standing up and tossing the letter back down when he seemingly can’t decipher anything new from it, “Sansa, you’ll come with me. It will help our cause for them to see Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter. After-all, Winterfell is yours by right.”

She nods, finally a plan she’s happy to go along with, and when he leaves, she follows.  
  


* * *

  
When there’s a knock on her door an hour later, she’s strangely disappointed that it's just a Night's Watch recruit on the other side. 

She's never seen him before and he extends his arm, holding a scroll.

“For you, my lady.”

Sansa’s suspicious, wondering who on earth it could be from, but she nods, taking it from him.

“Thank you.”

He leaves her with a curt nod and her eyes drift down to the paper in her hand.

The mockingbird sigil of House Baelish stares back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're all staying safe, my lovelies <3 I feel like I'm slowly losing my mind in lockdown, my mental health is definitely suffering, but as the Brits say... keep calm and carry on, and hopefully we'll be back to some semblance of normality soon!


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa always imagined that when she saw Petyr Baelish again, he would be amazed by her strength, her success, the transformation she had undergone. She had imagined all sorts of dark fates befalling him, visualised his body mangled and bloody and twisted. Sometimes the images were so violent they shocked her.

Still, none of her fantasies had involved meeting him again in a dark and dingy tavern in Moles Town.

She holds the letter he had sent her, the paper scrunching in her hand. Brienne stands tall behind her, that stony expression on her face and her hand poised on the hilt of her sword at her hip.

Lord Baelish has the sense to look at least a little ashamed.

“I am so relieved to see you well, my lady.”

Sansa’s anger blazes to life in the pit of her stomach, licking up her insides like flames.

“Well?” she repeats the word slowly and watches him fail to hide his grimace, “yes, I suppose I do look well. Ramsay made sure to leave my face intact. He said he needed it, the face of Ned Stark’s daughter. Did you know about him, what sort of man he was?”

He shakes his head but it’s not convincing and rage bubbles in her throat.

“I didn’t know. If I had…”

“You would have done what?” she interrupts, her voice sharp as a dagger.

“Anything,” he insists, “I would do anything _now —_ to make amends.”

“What if I said I wanted you to die?” she tries, testing his point, “to kneel before me right now and let Brienne put her sword through your heart?”

She watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. She thinks she would like to see that, a quiet, unremarkable death for him, his name forgotten. She thinks about no-one remembering him, no-one caring that he’s gone. He’d always wanted to be important and that picture is immensely gratifying.

“I would beseech you to reconsider, but I would understand. I would lay down my life for you.”

Sansa scoffs, not buying his words.

“I don’t believe you,” she mutters, “I don’t _trust_ you. I certainly don’t need you. I’m not the silly, naïve girl you knew. The one you manipulated for your own gain. I won’t go into great detail about what Ramsay did to me – what would be the point? He did what he wanted — and he was a man of evil, voracious appetites. But after everything he did to me, I came out of it stronger. I’ve changed – and there is a hole where my fear once was.”

He’s always so very clever, but he looks lost for words.

“I am glad you’ve found your strength,” he says quietly, “and I'm more sorry than you could ever know. I will make amends, I promise you that.”

“Your promises mean nothing to me,” she dismisses coldly, “my brother and I will take back Winterfell and I will never have to see you again.”

A flash of surprise passes over his face before his expression turns calculating, and she almost regrets divulging their plan to go home.

“I can help you,” he takes a step forward, “I rode north with the Knights of the Vale to come to your aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak. And your great-uncle, Brynden the Blackfish… he has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. Together, they could amount to an invaluable army loyal to _you_.”

She’s silent for a moment as she takes it all in, feeling the heat of Brienne’s inquisitive eyes on her.

“Jon will not accept your aid,” she settles on eventually, “he doesn’t trust you either.”

Baelish looks a little irritated, his pride likely wounded at the thought of being disliked by a bastard _._

He shakes it off, his mouth quirking into that sly grin she knows all too well.

"Perhaps it is not his decision to make,” he starts, “ _you,_ my love, are the future of House Stark. You hold the North in your hands. Who should they rally behind? The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, or a motherless bastard?”

His words press too close, burn too bright. If she’s honest with herself, she _does_ feel resentful. She knows without a doubt that the Northerners would follow Jon before they’d follow her. It doesn’t matter that she’s trueborn and he’s a bastard, that she has suffered and grown and become a shrewd tactician. She’s a woman and he’s a man and it’s that simple. 

She feels colder and darker and Baelish is _right,_ but she still hates him.

“You’re telling me to betray him? To go behind his back?”

Baelish clicks his tongue, back on top.

“I’m telling you to be smart,” he corrects, “to hold your cards close to your chest. Jon Snow has no claim to Winterfell. _You_ do. Remember that.”

She takes a step back when he tries to take her hand and close the gap between them.

“I never want to see you again.”

He doesn’t look offended, that sinister smile still curling his lips.

“You may change your mind,” he sounds confident, “and when you do… I will be here.”  
  


* * *

  
When Sansa was a girl, she had been close to all her siblings except Jon.

She hadn’t understood Arya. They were polar opposites and they fought more often than they got on. She can’t count the number of times Robb had chastised them for it, had ordered them to stop squabbling over nothing. She had found her unbearable at times, but Northerners were loyal – Starks most of all – so she loved her because she was her sister.

She had appreciated Bran for his inquisitive nature, shared in his passion for adventure and his eagerness to learn. As the youngest, she had found Rickon adorable, liked playing with his little feet in his crib, and she’d loved Robb most of all.

But while she had dismissed Jon, so cold to him because she wanted to please her mother, she had also often sought him out.

It was a curious thing, an unspoken thing, but when she was angry, when Arya or Jeyne or her Septa had annoyed her, she had often found herself drawn to him. She had sat with him in the courtyard or the Great Hall or even the stables, shifting uncomfortably on bales of hay.

They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t talk at all, but she had bathed in the calm air he carried with him.

Now, sitting opposite him in his chambers, he’s quiet, but the air doesn’t feel calm at all.

He’s staring into the fire, his face frighteningly blank. She can see the crimson flames reflected in the black of his eyes, the way he’s unblinking and deathly still.

“Jon?” she asks eventually, her voice a little hoarse from disuse.

He doesn’t react.

She clears her throat and tries again.

“Jon.”

He blinks but doesn’t answer, his face half bathed in candlelight.

“Jon!” she raises her voice and he seems to snap out of it.

She expects him to jump, to laugh, to shake his head and say he doesn’t know what came over him. These would be normal reactions, but he does none of these things. He doesn’t even flinch. He merely drags his dark eyes to her, achingly slow, and the slight arch to his brow is the only hint that he heard her at all.

He waits for her to speak. He’s always waiting for her.

“Where did you go?” she asks softly.

He merely hums in response, a small indifferent sound.

“You were here… but you weren’t,” she says quietly, slowly, feeling like she’s treading on eggshells, “sometimes you feel very far away.”

He blinks before tearing his eyes away, returning his gaze to the fire.

“I know.”

His answer reveals very little and she finds it frustrating. It seems like he’s in pain, but it doesn’t show.

He’d had so much love to give before, it can’t just be _gone_ now.

“You said there was nothing on the other side,” she whispers, “you saw nothing.”

“Aye,” he rumbles, low and deep, “they stabbed me and then it was dark. I don’t feel angry about it, or sad, or bitter. I don’t feel anything.”

She stares at him, so still and so quiet, and she suddenly wants to cry.

“Then why are you fighting at all?”

Her question makes him look at her, his brows pulling into a frown.

She elaborates before he can ask.

“If you feel nothing… if you don’t care… why do you want to win back Winterfell?” she asks, her voice thick with emotion, “why did you offer to help me? Why did you get so angry that Sam left? You said he abandoned you.”

He doesn’t answer but there’s a slight tick to his jaw when he looks away again.

Outside, the rain pelts against the windows. A crash of thunder causes a flock of birds to take flight from a tree, tiny white flashes lighting the sky and streaming into the room. It feels ominous, almost too on the nose, and a strange hysteria bubbles in Sansa’s stomach.

“I know we were never close — and I know that things between us are even _more_ confusing now,” she starts, her voice breaking slightly as her anxiety starts to rise, “but when Ramsay told me that you were here… a brother I hadn’t lost… gods _,_ I felt like I could _breathe_ again. I could see you and feel you and be with you, _finally._ You would help me, because you were always so kind and forgiving and it wouldn’t matter who we were before because we’re _family._ This was all I wanted. _This_ … but you’re different.”

He was _so_ kind before, it had been one of his defining characteristics. That and his honour. A strange thought sparks through her mind. Maybe because he was that in life, the very extreme of good, perhaps he is the very extreme of bad after death. As some Gods punish the bad, perhaps other Gods reward it.

But she's seen flickers of _something_ in him, and that doesn't seem right either. Her chest feels too tight, her throat burning, and she realises she’s crying. She touches her fingers to her cheeks and feels them wet with tears.

She doesn’t want this.

She doesn’t want to be broken. She doesn’t want _him_ to be broken. She doesn’t want to betray him like Littlefinger suggested, but she also kind of _does_ , because she’s tired of feeling powerless. She’s exhausted and confused, of the North and made of ice, but still too cold. She can’t remember what it feels like to be warm.

It’s like she feels it all at once, all the trauma and pain, everything she’s never _allowed_ herself to feel. She can’t cope with it all, can’t _breathe_ under the weight of it, and he confuses her and hurts her, but his touch is the only thing that makes her feel better too.

So she stands up and walks over to him, her chest rising and falling with the speed of her breaths.

“Sansa.”

His voice is deep, a low Northern brogue that sounds like home, and she feels untethered.

She takes a breath, her hands shaking, and then she climbs into his lap.

He doesn’t object but his head tips back slightly and he sighs, his hands anchoring themselves on her hips. She can feel how strong he is, power coiled in every battle-honed muscle. Her hands fly to his shoulders, her nails digging in, and she sobs his name.

“Please,” she doesn’t know what she’s begging for, but he hushes her as she curls into him. 

“Aye, alright,” he rumbles against her cheek, “it’s alright.”

It’s _not_ alright, but he feels good and warm, so she lets her mind go blank. She doesn’t think — she just takes his face in her hands and crashes her mouth to his.

He yields under her, his mouth opening immediately to accept her tongue. There’s no build up this time, no unbearable tension or teasing or seduction. She’s desperate, frantic, and he matches her step for step, his hands travelling to her face. He angles her head as his mouth slides over hers, wet and soft and warm.

He kisses her like a man finally brought back from the dead, a flame inside him sparking to life.

She doesn’t question his sudden surrender, half expects him to pull back and reject her and smirk her away. He’s not toying with her, not spinning an intricate web, and when she pulls back and latches her mouth to his neck, he actually _groans._

The sound sparks straight to her cunt and she grinds in his lap, her hips rolling and her mouth sucking a mark into his skin. Something wild and possessive flares inside her at the sight of it, the little red imprint that will bloom into a bruise come morning. She runs her mouth across his jawline, the grit of his beard rough against her cheek, and his fingers flex against her.

Her lips drift over his skin again until she’s at the corner of his mouth. He turns his head and then they come together in another passionate kiss, teeth clashing and tongues sliding over one another.

“Touch me,” she breaks away and pants against his cheek when his fingers twitch again, “ _please —_ please don’t — I want you.”

_Please don’t play with me anymore._

She stumbles over the words, too frantic to care, desperate to feel something. She tugs at his jerkin and his hands close around her wrists.

Her eyes connect with his, pale blue on steely grey, and his expression is dark and knowing.

“Calm down,” he orders.

Her body relaxes, the command eerily effective.

She focuses on her breaths, her eyes fluttering shut. Her skin is still on fire, her body aching for release, but she moves slower this time when she kisses him.

He kisses her back, because he _always_ kisses her back.

“It’s alright,” he grunts again against her mouth, “I’ll make you feel good.”

She nods, whispers _please,_ and feels him hard underneath her. It gives her a little thrill, the confirmation that he wants her too, even if he is a little more composed about it. He kisses her again, nips at her bottom lip, and then he’s standing, his strong arms propping her up.

She wraps her legs around his waist, clings to him as he walks them backwards to the desk. The dress she’s wearing is another one of Melisandre’s and it’s dark and thin, held together by a bow at her right hip.

He gives the ribbon a little tug and the material opens, exposing her bare breasts and pussy. He arches a brow at her lack of smallclothes, his mouth finding hers again. As he kisses her, she registers him reaching a foot behind him, hooking it around the chair and dragging it forward. He lifts her onto the desk and puts his hands on her knees.

"Spread your legs for me, Sansa," he murmurs against her lips.

She swallows, her throat on fire, and lets him push her thighs apart.

“I told you, you have the prettiest cunt,” he says, “let me see.”

She’s nervous but she nods, her mouth finding his again. Their tongues battle for dominance, to control something that’s never been theirs to control. His lips are soft but firm, and she’s _never_ been kissed like this. Like her pleasure matters, like _she_ matters _._

His mouth trails down her neck, his hands pushing the material off her shoulders. The dress flutters to the desk, leaving her completely naked, and she feels her nipples pebble in the cool air.

His lips reach one and he tugs it between his teeth, his hand casually squeezing her other breast. Her hand grips the edge of the desk, a little moan falling from her lips as he teases the swollen peak. Her other hand wraps in his hair, anchoring him to her breast, and she tips her head back.

She starts to tug at the leather band, but he grabs her hand and entwines their fingers.

“Leave it tied back,” he grunts into her breast, “I want to see you.”

She bites into her bottom lip, her cunt clenches around nothing, and then he sits down in the chair.

She frowns, sitting up slightly, but he merely places a hand on her stomach. He urges her to lay down, his eyes so dark, they’re practically black. She does as he asks, propping herself up on her elbows as his fingers travel to her inner thighs. She’s so wet, his fingers slip where he grips the skin, and he spreads her open for him.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, running one finger teasingly down her slit, “I’ve thought about tasting your sweet little cunt.”

She almost sobs at the words, pleasure sparking from head to toe. She’s thought about that too, _dreamt_ about it, woke up trembling with the thought of his face between her thighs.

He doesn’t drag it out.

He just hooks her legs over his shoulders and with a wicked look, runs his tongue up her soaked cunt. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she spits, her back arching and her hips tilting up. Her cheeks heat at the filthy way he licks at her, his tongue wringing her like a rag. She’s unashamed, unapologetic about her pleasure, as she grinds her hips and rides his face, soaking him from his nose to his beard.

He doesn’t seem to mind, pulling back to drop a globule of spit directly onto her pulsing clit before he returns to his meal. Her eyes practically roll back in her head as his fingers dig into her thighs, keeping her spread open for him, and her own hands twitch uselessly by her sides.

She wants to run her fingers through his messy curls but she understands what he means now. With them tied back, he can focus on his task, his fingers joining his mouth. He teases her soaking entrance with the tips of two before he slowly pushes them inside.

“ _Gods,_ Jon,” she moans, a shaky note to her voice, and her thighs start to tremble around his head.

His grunt reverberates against her, the vibration making her cry out. He curls his fingers deeper inside her cunt, crooking them slightly and hitting the perfect spot, spots she didn’t even know existed. He eats messily, loudly, the sounds filling the air and only stoking her desire.

His tongue travels to her clit, focuses on it in tiny circles. A violent shudder travels down her spine as she arches off the desk, feeling that tight coil in the pit of her stomach.

With one more lick and crook of his fingers, the coil snaps, liquid pleasure exploding throughout her body. The orgasm flies through her, so intense that she’s crying again, and he slings an arm over her lower stomach, keeping her still as he rides her through it.

He laps at her lazily until she has to push his head away, hissing from oversensitivity. Her juices coat his fingers, running down to his wrist, and she feels like she could come again when he casually licks them clean.

She slumps back onto the desk, flinging an arm over her face, and saves the guilt for the morning. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who's ready for some big tent energy??

Jon doesn’t touch her again.

The weeks pass by in a blur of strategy and plans, begging for support from the northern houses who were loyal and trying to win back the ones who were not. 

With the threat of a losing battle looming over them, there’s little time to think of anything else.

And yet, she does still think.

She remembers the taste of his mouth, all ale and smoke and something sweeter. She remembers the feel of his tongue, slick and wet, as it licked across her collarbone or between her legs. She remembers the tone of his voice, raspy and low as he poured filth into her ears. She remembers the gift he had given her, the peak that washed over her, so intense it felt like she was breaking apart. Felt like more than she could bear.

She tries to put it aside, wrapped up in that box in her mind, filed away for another time. For now, she takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the brisk northern air, as they wait for Ramsay Bolton to arrive.

“You don’t have to be here,” Jon’s low voice rasps from beside her.

Her tired horse fusses between her thighs, as restless as its owner, and she fixes her eyes on the hill on the horizon.

“Yes, I do,” she says simply.

She can feel the heat of his eyes on her but continues to stare straight ahead.

She sees him stiffen, growing colder, but she doesn’t care. Winterfell might be his home, but this is _her_ fight. Ramsay never tormented him, never cut into his skin with nails and blades and words just as sharp. He never tried to hollow him from the inside out, tried to break him.

He has suffered — but not in the very unique way Ramsay Bolton makes one suffer.

The _only_ person who could come close to understanding was Theon. _And he killed him,_ she reminds herself dully.

Soon enough, a rumbling noise emerges from the distance, the sound of pounding hooves against wet grass.

Ramsay appears on the horizon, trotting towards them with banners of flayed men flapping in the wind around him.

When he’s settled in-front of them, a sinister smirk curving his lips, Sansa’s surprised by her reaction.

 _There is a hole where my fear once was,_ she had told Petyr Baelish.

She finds she’s no longer afraid of him, no longer scared.

He can’t hurt her now.

Her back stays straight, her expression impassive, even as he turns his cruel eyes to her.

“My lovely wife,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “how I’ve missed you.”

Her fingers tighten around the reins, the leather pulled taut and squeaking around her gloved fingers. Jon must hear it too because his dark eyes flash to her hands before he drags them back to Ramsay.

“Let’s not waste time, shall we?” he says dryly, sounding almost bored, “there’s no need for a battle. Dismount your horse, I’ll dismount mine, and we’ll settle this man to man.”

Sansa clenches her teeth until her jaw aches.

Ramsay’s no man. He’s a monster – and she’s not sure Jon’s entirely human either. Not after what he’s been through, not after where he’s been.

“And why would I do that?” Ramsay asks, matching Jon’s uninterested tone, and his brow climbs to his hairline.

“So good men don’t have to die.”

Sansa cringes, a grimace flashing over her face, because Ramsay would never care about that, and if Jon _listened_ to her, if he asked her advice, she could tell him so. She could share what she’s learned about him, how she’s glimpsed into the darkness of his mind and it almost destroyed her too. She could tell them just how he loves to torture and play with people, and she could _help._

But he never asks.

“But if _I_ die…” Ramsay starts, his tone light and mocking, “how will you get your wild little brother back? Perhaps I’ve hidden him. Perhaps only I know where he is.”

“ _Perhaps_ you don’t have him at all,” Sansa bites back, the words flying out of her like poison from her tongue.

He could be vicious and cruel, but he could also be full of empty threats, twisted and driven by all the insecurities that came with being born a bastard.

Really, he wasn’t so hard to read.

She bristles only slightly as he drags his cold eyes to her.

He keeps them on her, testing her, punishing her, as he flicks his wrist and Smalljon Umber tosses a black satchel on the ground.

Shaggydog’s head rolls from the bag, two lifeless eyes staring up at them from the dirt.

Sansa slowly glances to Jon to gauge his reaction. She watches his nostrils flare as his anger spikes and he fights to push it down.

“The wolf was easy enough to kill,” Ramsay shrugs casually, “your brother will be too. You should have heard how he screamed when it died. I wonder if he’ll scream the same when I cut his throat. Will you let that happen because you’re too proud to surrender?”

Sansa closes her eyes, hot tears stinging her throat and behind her vision.

 _My poor baby brother,_ she thinks mournfully, _my poor Rickon._

He must be so frightened, so cold and alone. She just wants to get to him. 

Jon’s better at hiding his reaction — that cold, stoic expression still etched on his face.

“It’s not about pride — and you’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” it’s a simple promise, his voice low and carried by the wind, and Ramsay merely smirks.

“Come now,” he drawls, “you don’t have a big enough army. You don’t have the resources. And I’ve been hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever lived. I don’t know if I could beat you, but I know my army would beat yours. So why would I take you up on your offer?”

Sansa speaks then, her voice steady and confident.

“Because we’re going to win. You may have the men - but they’re weak. Disloyal. They’ll turn on you just as they turned on my family,” her hate-filled eyes flash to Smalljon Umber then, his top lip curled into a sneer, “you may have the numbers, but the men we have are worth twice as much. Strong and noble and _good_ Northern houses. You’re going to lose.”

Ramsay stares at her, taking in her expression. Silence settles over them for a moment, the only noise coming from the wind whistling across the open field, and she can feel the heat of Jon’s inquisitive eyes on her.

“My, how you’ve changed, dear wife,” he purrs, his mouth pursed tight and his voice displeased, “I look forward to having you back. I’ll beat that resistance right out of you.”

Fury flares to life inside her, the prospect causing bile to rise from the back of her throat. She would rather cut her own throat and bleed out onto the freshly fallen slow than go anywhere with him. She would rather die than be trophy, his key to the North.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him, her blood turned to anger.

“You’re going to die, Lord Bolton,” she promises casually, “I hope I will be there to see it.”

She just about registers the click to her husband's jaw, his surprise mixing with anger, and then she’s squeezing her horse between her thighs and kicking it into a gallop.

She doesn’t wait for his reply.

* * *

“You didn’t honestly think that would work, did you?”

Tormund’s voice is low and gruff as he confronts Jon that evening, huddled around torn maps and battle plans.

Jon runs a tired hand over his face before he makes a fist and leans on the desk. He’s hunched over slightly, his sharp eyes scanning over the drawings and he doesn’t look at the wildling when he speaks.

“No,” he murmurs, “but I wanted to make him angry. If he’s emotional, he might make a mistake.”

Sansa shakes her head, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, as the men around her bicker.

“Well, I’m not going to spend one of my last nights on earth with you, little Crow,” Tormund guffaws, his tone light hearted as he pats Jon on the back a little too aggressively.

Jon doesn’t look offended and he gives a curt nod.

“Come on,” Davos speaks then, releasing a heavy sigh, “let’s drown our sorrows.”

The two men leave the tent, closing the flap behind them, and suddenly it’s just Jon and Sansa.

The air feels tense, teetering on a knife’s edge, and something unspoken burns between them.

“You should get some rest too,” Jon says eventually, still not looking at her as his other hand comes down on the desk and he grips the edge. His fingers curl into the parchment, scrunching it slightly, and the candlelight flickers and dances across the steel of his rings.

Sansa blinks at him.

“Rest?” she repeats incredulously, “is that a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“I don’t know,” she narrows her eyes, “it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

His jaw ticks, a brief flicker of irritation sweeping over his stoic features.

“Not now, Sansa.”

But if not now - when?

She wants to scream at him. She wants to protect him too, for him to crawl inside her where she can hold him and keep him safe and never let him bleed out onto the battlefield. It’s infuriatingly confusing.

“Ramsay was never going to make a mistake,” she grits out, “he doesn’t _get_ emotional. He doesn’t play games — only the ones he invents himself. You were a fool to meet him out there. We’re not ready.”

He sighs, sinking down into a chair and stroking his hand over his beard.

“I thought you said we were going to win,” he quirks a brow, “or did I hear that incorrectly?”

She does roll her eyes this time.

“I was putting on a front. I thought _you_ would have understood that.”

It’s an accusation, a pointed assertion that he likes to wear a mask. He likes to keep people under his control, to keep them in the dark. He's an impossible man to read.

“What do you want, Sansa?” he asks eventually, sounding irritated and on the edge and very, very tired.

“I want you to listen to me,” she says simply, “I want you to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says because she doesn’t.

His top lip curls and his mouth twitches into a grimace as he looks away.

“Aye, alright,” he gestures to the map in-front of him, “ _you_ tell me what to do. You tell me how we win – and how we get Rickon back.”

She takes a breath, her eyes glancing over the map before she looks at him.

“I met with Lord Baelish,” his dark eyes fly to her and she continues before he can interrupt, “the Knights of the Vale are camped at Moat Cailin. That’s thousands of men to add to our army. It could make all the difference. I didn’t want to tell you before – I thought we could gather enough men without his aid. But the Blackfish can’t help us, Lord Glover won’t have us. We needed the support of all the northern houses left, and many of them haven’t answered our call. The Vale are all we have. I will write to him.”

“You will not.”

Sansa bristles, straightening her back.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am,” he stands then, a surprising anger flashing over his features, “I will not be in Petyr Baelish’s debt.”

She takes a step towards him, matching him step for step.

“It’s not enough,” she insists heatedly.

“Aye, it’s not enough,” he fires back, “but it’s what we have.”

“We could have more!”

“Not if it’s through him.”

Tears of frustration prickle at her eyes, her throat burning.

“You’re going to destroy everything,” she hisses, “we’re going to lose our home and our brother because you’re too proud to ask for help.”

He stiffens, his jaw clenching tight.

“And what do you think Petyr Baelish will ask for,” he says with a sarcastic hum, “in return for his _gracious_ help? You know what he’ll want.”

She stares back at him dully.

“He’ll want me,” she says evenly, “I’m not an idiot, Jon. I _know_ Littlefinger. I know Ramsay. You don’t.”

“Aye, I don’t know them,” he takes a step towards her until they’re toe to toe, until she can feel the fury emanating off him in hot waves that make her stomach clench, “but I know some things. I know I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself for the North. I’m not tying you into another marriage – certainly not with him. We will do the best with what we have. Battles have been won against greater odds.”

“You’re not _letting_ me…” she repeats under her breath, her voice lined with frustration, “for as long as I can remember, men have been talking about what they will _let_ me do. What they will _allow._ I know how this world works. I have spent my entire life in the shadow of men who do not. Men who underestimate me. I will do what it takes – with or without your permission.”

She tries to push past him, anger swirling in her gut, and he grabs her easily. His hands curl hot around the tops of her arms, his fingers digging into her skin, and his eyes are wild.

Against her permission, lust kicks at her stomach, mixing with the anger.

“I’m fighting for our home – for _us_ ,” he reminds her, “I can’t fight you too.”

The laugh she throws back at him is bitter and she hurls it like a weapon.

“You can’t fight anyone because you don’t listen.”

The words seem to snap something inside him.

Before she can say another word, something dark flashes through his already black eyes, and then he’s crashing his mouth to hers.

He kisses her like he wants to shut her up, like if he doesn't kiss her, he'll kill her. She pushes right back, lust snapping at her heels like wildfire. His mouth slants overs, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, and she opens for him. Teeth clash, tongues slide over one another and Jon swallows her cry when he pushes her against the desk.

She shudders against him when his arm flies out to swipe the contents off the table, sending them crashing to the floor. His hands fly to her hips and he lifts her until she’s sitting on it. Her legs spread automatically and he steps between them, cradled between her thighs. His hands fly to her face, cupping her cheeks as he takes her bottom lip between his teeth and tugs.

It’s different to their other kisses, so seductive and drawn out. There’s no teasing now, only passion and desperation, and her hands claw at the leather of his gambeson. She feels wetness on her thighs, feels them slip against each other, as his tongue slides against hers.

He doesn’t whisper dirty words into her ears. He doesn’t try and draw out her pleasure and leave her on the edge. He doesn’t play with her. It feels like more than that, more than a game, and when he drags his mouth away, his breath falls in ragged pants.

A little moan escapes her and she feels the grit of his beard, the curve of his lips against her cheek.

“It’s so hard, isn’t it…” he murmurs darkly, “to want someone as much as you hate them?”

She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want his words, so she grabs his face and kisses him again. Her kiss is furious, desperate, and she squeezes his hips between her thighs. Her fingers fly to his hair, tugging the leather band from it. There’s a flash of white as she yanks at his curls and he hisses between his teeth.

His hand comes up to her throat, gently squeezing it, his fingers splaying across her collarbone. She whimpers, feeling a gush between her thighs, and she kisses him harder. She’s embarrassingly wet, soaking through her smallclothes, and it only worsens with every little squeeze of her throat.

“You like that?” he growls into her ear, “what do you want?”

He gathers her skirts, pushing them up her thighs until her smallclothes are exposed. He bites at her ear, every inch a wolf, and growls again when she stays silent.

“I’m not touching you if you don’t answer me.”

“You,” she bites out, “I want you.”

“My fingers, my cock, my mouth?” he husks, “you came so prettily on my mouth.”

She moans at the words, spreading her legs wider. 

It doesn’t take her long to realise he’s all talk, because he _does_ touch her. He kisses along her collarbone, his beard scratching her skin, as he shoves her smallclothes to the side and slips a finger inside her cunt.

She keens against him, squeezing his finger, and he pumps the digit inside her unbearably slowly. She lifts her hips, grinding against his finger, and she moans louder when he pushes a second inside her. His thumb circles her clit while he curls his fingers deep inside her cunt.

She shudders violently, one hand curling around the edge of the desk and the other burying itself in his hair.

“Gods,” she whimpers, capturing his mouth in a messy kiss, “you frustrate me.”

He gives a little groan, murmuring his heated reply against her lips.

“The feeling is mutual.”

There’s nothing soft or seductive about the orgasm that rushes over her. It’s messy and desperate, his fingers fucking her wetly, flicking at her clit until she tumbles off the edge. Her blood still spiked with it, she slides off the desk and hurriedly unlaces his breeches. She shoves her hand into them before he has the chance to push her off.

He hisses, his hips bucking against her as she finds his cock hot and hard and ready.

“Fuck,” he grits out, bowing his head as his hands slam down on the desk either side of her.

It’s the first time she’s touched his cock and the sensation is overwhelming. His dark eyes flash to her, pupils blown to black, and they stare at each other as she pumps him. The atmosphere blisters and somehow the silence is even hotter than the filthy words he sometimes pours into her ears.

He’s silky but hard in her hand and she swipes her thumb across the sensitive tip. He hisses through his teeth again, desire flashing over his face as she gathers the precum and uses it to slicken her hand.

“Kiss me,” he commands in a growl.

She acquiesces, tilting her chin so he can take her mouth. His tongue sweeps inside and she swallows his groan when he shudders and comes, coating her hand in sticky seed.

It’s silent as their breathing fights to return to normal.

He leans his forehead against hers, something heady and intense and _new_ bristling between them.

Outside, Ghost howls his discontent.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

On the eve of battle, Sansa writes to Littlefinger.

Her hands shake slightly as she puts the ink to paper and with his nose in her lap, Ghost lets out little billows of warm air across her thigh. The fingers of her left hand tangle in his fur, working through the tangled knots, and she listens to his gentle, contented growls.

“What a traitor, you are,” she whispers, her mouth quirking in amusement when he gives a little grunt in reply. She wonders if he can hear her, if he’s as real and alive and magical as those dragons she keeps hearing so much about it. They say there’s a Queen across the Narrow Sea with three of them, with ice in her hair and skin as pale as winter’s snow. Sansa hopes to meet her one day.

Maybe it's the touch of wolfsblood in her veins making her wild, but Ghost loved her. Sometimes it felt like he loved her even more than he loved Jon, or at least as much, and he nuzzles into her.

 _What a traitor, you are —_ the words suddenly hit her for their unintended depth.

 _Maybe you want him gone,_ the dark thought sweeps through her mind before she can stop it, _maybe you want the Northern lords to follow you, and you alone, as is your right._

_Maybe you want him to die on that battlefield._

_No,_ the thought makes her shudder and she shakes it away.

It’s not true — it can’t be true.

He infuriates her at times, pushes all her buttons, but he makes her feel alive too. He fights beside her and shows her parts of the world she never expected to see and makes her feel things she never expected to feel. Not after what Ramsey did to her.

Sickness swirls in the pit of her stomach, claws at her throat. She shoves it down again. That’s not why she’s not telling him. 

It’s not her fault she’s right. It’s not her fault he won’t listen. They _need_ Littlefinger. They’ll never win back the North without him and she _needs_ to win. She needs Ramsay to pay.

She can’t just sit here contemplating the certain agony she knows would be hers should they fail.

The worry that they would be in Littlefinger's debt could come later. They would work it out. For now, she finishes scribbling, finishes the call for help, and seals the letter with dripping hot wax.

The crimson wolf of her family’s seal stares back at her reproachfully.

She sighs and turns it over.

She supposes she could tell Jon.

She could share it with him so he could re-evaluate his plans, re-strategise. He would be angry at her for disobeying him, for going behind his back, but it would be too late to call them off and he would finally see he needs their help.

She could tell him and perhaps he could live.

She doesn’t.

* * *

The Knights of the Vale are almost too late.

By the time they get there, Sansa riding wildly behind on her own white horse, the Boltons have Jon’s army surrounded.

Her stomach twists with something dark and uneasy when she realises how close they were. She hadn’t told him, had kept him in the shadows and under her thumb, and he could have died.

Something akin to guilt flows through her and she pushes it down.

She had played him the way he’d played her, some sort of revenge for Theon, but it doesn't feel like a victory.

Across the muddy, blood drenched field, she catches Jon’s eye.

He’s propped up by other men, leaning above the parapet, and even from a distance, she can see every emotion that flickers through his wild eyes.

It starts with surprise, blending into relief and settling on betrayal. His face is covered in mud, clotting in his beard, and she can see his jaw clench. His nostrils flare as his rage bursts through the surface — and then he’s cutting through the men again and watching Ramsay Bolton gallop off into the horizon. 

“Congratulations, my love,” Petyr Baelish is crooning next to her from where he sits atop his own grey stallion, “it’s over.”

_My love._

A shudder that has nothing to do with the cold passes through her.

She watches Jon take off after Ramsay on foot, Tormund and Ser Davos lagging behind.

She clenches her jaw until it aches and then she answers—

“No, it’s not.”

* * *

When the battle is done, when the bodies are burned and buried in dust, Sansa waits in the courtyard and closes her eyes.

The stench of death hangs heavy in the air. She can smell stale sweat and bodies already starting to rot. She can see Ghost lapping at the crimson snow where Jon had pummelled Ramsay’s face into the ground. It looks like his wet tongue is trying to wring the blood from the stone.

They’re gone now, Jon to his chambers and Ramsay tossed into the kennels behind Winterfell’s crypts. She doesn’t know which one to go to first.

Eventually, she decides on Jon, needing to prepare herself for Ramsay. She feels like she owes him an explanation, even if she can’t quite find the words, and her shaky legs carry her to the Lord and Lady’s chambers.

“He’s not in there,” one of the guards says, “he went back to his old chambers.”

Sansa frowns, “from when he was a boy?”

“Aye.”

Her frown deepening, she walks to that part of the castle and finds his door ajar. She bristles at his lack of care for his own safety, and she walks in and closes it behind her.

She stands in the middle of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, and waits for him to emerge from the connecting wash chamber. She can see his blood soaked armour discarded in the corner of the room, his gambeson and tunic thick with mud and dirt. Longclaw is propped against the wall, its blade still dripping with blood and leaving thick pools of it on the stone floor.

 _It might stain,_ she thinks absentmindedly, and she’s struck by the bizarre worry that her mother would disapprove. But then, her mother disapproved of most of the things Jon did back then, and she certainly would disapprove of the things he did now.

A chill rolls through her at the thought of it.

“What do you want?”

His voice is cold, cutting through her like the north in winter, and she shivers again.

She turns slowly, tries to keep her eyes on his face, even as his chest lays bare and scarred and lovely before her.

“I came to see if you are well,” she says, her tone clipped, “are you well?”

He stares at her for a moment, blinks steadily.

“Am I well?”

She fights back her wince, just now realising how that must have sounded. She can already see the skin under his eye mottling purplish blue, the fresh cuts on his face oozing blood despite him clearly just washing. He limps slightly as he walks over to the desk, leaning a hand on the surface, and his ribs are already bruised, the bones likely cracked underneath.

It looks like it hurts to breathe — and she can’t breathe either.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she cuts to the chase, feeling a fist in her chest, clenching tight around her heart, “I’m sorry you were hurt and I’m sorry if I disappointed you… but Jon, you disappointed me too.”

His jaw ticks, his eyes blank and dull and fixed on a spot on the desk.

She takes a step towards him and he holds a hand out, wincing slightly at the pain in his side.

She stops, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

He doesn’t want her to touch him. He doesn’t want her near him. Tiny shards of pain stab at her heart. It feels like she’s dragging them in with every breath.

“I told you I would do whatever it took — with or without your permission,” she says, her voice low and guarded but strong, “you would have lost the battle without the Vale and you know it.”

His eyes briefly close, something dark sweeping over his expression, and he finally drags his dark eyes to her.

“Anything else?”

His tone is emotionless, blank and detached, and she wants to shake him.

She walks over to him and ignores him when he grimaces and pulls away from her. She takes his face in both hands and forces him to look at her.

She swipes her thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away some blood that pools there and ignoring the way her own trembles. She doesn’t know whether he’s bit into it out of frustration or if he’s reopened a wound, and her other hand goes to his side. Her finger trail over his ribs, her chest tightening as he flinches in pain, a low hiss escaping through his teeth.

“I know that you are angry…” she starts, her hand cupping his face now. She holds his gaze, so dark and penetrating, and feels the grit of his beard under her fingers, “but we’re _here._ We’re together and we’re home. All the rest can wait. I mean, really, you should be thanking me.”

Really, he should be on his _knees_ thanking her.

His hand comes up to cover hers on his face. It slides down until his fingers are gently gripping her wrist.

“Thank you…” he says quietly.

His voice is empty, dull, and the air chills around him when he adds—

“Now get out.”

* * *

Sansa straightens her back and tells herself to be strong as she closes his chamber door and leaves him to brood.

She returns to the courtyard, in search of Davos, because the battle is not done.

She finds him muttering to Tormund, both of them lost in conversation. Her hand wraps around his elbow as he walks past her.

“My brother,” she whispers, unable to meet his battle-weary eyes, “where is Rickon?”

She finally drags her eyes to him and notices how he seems to look straight through her. His expression is grim and twisted, haunted by all the things he’s seen, things no man should ever see, and he places a hand over her own.

He holds it for a moment, squeezes her fingers, and she's grateful for the attempt at comfort.

“I saw him when I threw Ramsay down there,” Davos says lowly, “he’s in the kennels.”

Bile rises from the back of her throat.

“With the dogs?”

Davos nods, that sour expression still pinching his mouth.

“I just sent two men down there to get him,” he explains, “we’ll bring him up, put him in his rooms.”

Tears scorch behind her eyes, burning her throat, and she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it.”

“My lady, it appears he has been through a lot,” Davos starts cautiously, “he may need some time to adjust—”

“He’s my _brother,_ ” Sansa interrupts fiercely, the first tear rolling down her cheek, "I can handle it."

She angrily brushes the tear away with the back of her hand and lifts her chin defiantly.

Davos gives a curt nod, taking a step back.

She begins the short walk towards the kennels.

As she does, she thinks about her poor brother. She wonders what state she’ll find him in and her stomach gives a sickening lurch. _He’s just a child_ , she thinks with despair, just a boy. He hasn’t even celebrated his eleventh nameday yet and here he is, scared and tortured and alone. She thinks of how she used to sing him to sleep, rock him in her arms, and the fact that she couldn’t keep him safe makes her want to scream.

She walks through the crypts, once so familiar, and feels the ghosts of her family.

She thinks about her father, who only ever wanted to do right. She wonders what he would do, what he would say, if he could see her now. He had always defended Jon, never treated him like a bastard, called him his son as much as Robb and Bran and Rickon. What would he call him now? If he could see how he touched his daughter, the filthy things he whispered to her at night.

 _He’s foul,_ she can hear her mother hiss, _look at what he’s done to our girl, this is your fault._

It wouldn’t matter that she wanted it too — wanted him.

 _I’m sorry,_ she wants to sob, _I tried my best — and it all went so wrong somehow._

She thinks about her mother, who only ever wanted to protect her children — but whose bones now turn to dust in a cold river down south. They couldn’t even bring her and Robb home, she thinks mournfully. When she and Jon are laid to rest, their statues lining the crypt next to father and Lyanna, they will be missing.

It feels wrong.

They’re a pack and they should be together. With Jon refusing to speak to her, she feels utterly alone, and she prays for Bran and Arya too.

As she turns the corner to the kennels, she hears the two men Davos had sent shouting furiously.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” one of them growls.

Sansa notices them then, sees one of them give the cage a kick.

It’s not Rickon in there, but Ramsay, and hatred churns in the pit of her stomach.

“My lady,” the other man notices her, tipping his chin in respect, “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to see this.”

The other man is still hissing through the bars of the cage, his top lip curled into a snarl and his armour bloodied from battle.

“Jon Snow should have finished you when he had the chance," he says.

“No, he shouldn’t,” Sansa corrects smoothly, making her presence known, “he's mine.”

Jon had let him go, his blood soaked fist suspended mid-punch as he caught her eye. He had looked frenzied, close to madness, and it had taken him two blinks to really see her. He’d read the expression on her face — the silent beg, _he’s mine —_ and the haze had lifted.

Despite his anger, despite everything that had happened, he had given him to her, hers to punish, and that had to mean something.

“Leave us,” she says, her eyes focused on Ramsay’s blood soaked face. She watches his mouth twist into a sinister grin and he holds it, even as it looks painful to do so.

“We shouldn’t—”

“He’s in a cage,” she says dully, “I think I’ll be fine.”

The men look at each other uneasily before they give matching nods, hand her the keys and leave.

Ramsay immediately starts talking, as she knew he would, but she drowns it out, her eyes searching frantically for Rickon.

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth when she sees him.

“Rickon,” it’s a broken sob, whispered on an exhale, and she rushes over to the cage. She drops to her knees, dust and dirt sullying her dress as she winds her hands around the steel bars of the cage.

He looks so small, so tiny and frail as he shivers, curled up in a ball. The tears flow freely now, unable as she is to hold them back, and she tries to reach for him.

She calls his name again, drawing back when his head turns.

He looks dead behind the eyes, blank and feral. He wears scraps of clothing, the rips in them exposing bruised and bloody skin. He blinks at her with big Tully blue eyes, _her_ eyes, but there’s no recognition in them. They’re glassy, wild.

There’s nothing in them of the little boy she used to know, the one she would secretly hold to her breast and pretend was her own.

He raises himself onto his hands and knees and crawls towards her, his top lip curled into a snarl. He growls at her like an animal.

“What have you done?” she whispers, horrified.

Ramsay’s chuckle is dark and menacing behind her.

“You’ll never be free of me now, wife,” he drawls, “even if you kill me… you’ll see me in your little brother every day. Reek was good practice, you even better still, but the littlest Stark was far easier to break.”

 _The littlest Stark,_ his mind was still forming, so fragile and breakable, and it bent and snapped under the torture.

She screws her eyes shut and tries to hold back her sobs.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, as much to herself as to Rickon, “you’re going to be okay.”

Ramsay’s hounds growl around her, every inch as wild and menacing as their owner, and she tries to ignore them as she opens Rickon’s cage.

“Come,” she whispers, “come here, Rickon.”

He whimpers — a soft, sad sound — and her chest tightens again.

She crawls towards him, meeting him halfway. When she touches him, he growls, snapping his teeth. She draws back with a gasp, swallowing thickly before she tries again. She grabs him and holds him tight as he thrashes, snarling like an animal. She begins to rock with him, like when he was a babe and he refused to sleep, and she closes her eyes against the tears again.

“I love you so much,” she whispers — _I’m going to make this right._

His body is weak and frail, his bones sticking out from beneath his skin, and he soon gives into exhaustion. She wraps him up in her arms and stands on shaky legs. He weighs far less than he should for a boy of his age, making the task easier, and she throws a poisonous look at Ramsay as she walks past.

“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” she says lowly, repeating the words Jon had spoken to him on the battlefield.

His dark chuckle still rings in her ears, long after she’s left the crypts and stepped into the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rickon 😔
> 
> I know the implication that Sansa might, on some level, have wanted Jon to die on the battlefield will not be popular – but I think it’s important. I find it strange they never speak about her not telling him about the Vale and her thought process in the show, that the only emotion Jon seems to have about it is relief and praise – “we’re standing here because of you”. Given that my Jon (and Sansa) are far darker, I think Sansa’s actions make sense. Just a fleeting, dark thought. There’s this resentment brimming between them, this bitterness and anger that’s so inextricably linked with their desire. I think it makes for a great angsty explosion—and a physical explosion (😏 ) …. more on this and Ramsay’s fate next.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this one... this is the broad framework I had in my mind, the thing I was working towards, when I started this story. Please note the warning for graphic violence comes into play here... read with caution, my loves, and hope you're all staying safe.

“Easy, Rickon.”

Jon’s voice is calm—all low, dark northern gruff—and far gentler than Sansa’s heard it in a long time.

She sits on the edge of his bed and watches them, her hands clasped in her lap. Jon is sitting on his haunches as he holds his hand out to their brother, still a feral little thing. It’s been nigh on a moon but there’s little improvement. Rickon still communicates in grunts, his eyes wild and dazed.

Sometimes, in the dark when he’s tired himself out and he’s fighting for sleep, Sansa’s sure she sees fear in them. As much as it makes her ache, in a strange way, it pleases her. Fear is good. Fear makes you feel, makes you move.

Rickon snarls at him, prowling on all fours in front of the fire. From the corner of the room, Ghost looks at him curiously, his head cocked to the side. He doesn’t understand and she doesn’t either—and Jon moves a little closer.

“It’s alright,” he says lowly. It really isn’t, but Rickon shudders, drawing back with suspicion flickering through his eyes. Not for the first time, Sansa wonders what Ramsay did to him. The bruises have faded, the cuts healed, but perhaps he still feels what he did—just as she still feels it.

She remembers the night she brought him upstairs, turning the handmaidens away so she could run his bath herself. She’d held him as he thrashed in the tub, scratching her and biting her, adding to the scars Ramsay had left behind. She’d gritted her teeth and pushed through it, scrubbing at his frail body, but he was hysterical and her voice didn’t soothe him the way it had before.

She’d bitten back the sickness that had risen as bile from the back of her throat when she saw his naked body. He was covered in purplish black bruises, his bones pressing against paper thin skin. She’d lifted his arm to look at his ribs, at the angry and red-raw and swollen skin, and she suspected some of them might be broken. With an almost eerie calmness, she had wiped the mud and blood from his skin, dodged his bites until he exhausted himself and grew limp. She watched the water turn red with the evidence of his pain.

She told him she loved him over and over again—and hoped one of them stuck.

He was asleep by the time she lifted him out of the tub, a tiny little thing in her arms, and only when she was sure he couldn’t hear her did she let herself cry. She sat on the edge of the bed with him curled up in her lap, her fingers running through his unruly, overgrown hair, and she sobbed. She’d cried until her ribs ached, until there were no tears left, and when Jon came to her chambers—perhaps to discuss the battle, perhaps to apologise, though that seemed unlikely—something akin to rage had flickered over his face at the sight of their brother.

He’d knelt at her feet, his jaw clenched tight. He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t ask where Ramsay was. He just put his hand on Rickon’s head, stroked gently over his damp hair, and Sansa covered the hand with her own.

He’s crawling towards him now, his hand still outstretched. As she watches him, her thumb rubs absentmindedly over a new scar on the inside of her wrist. Rickon had given it to her the first time she tried to feed him, his nails dirty and long, and Jon had new scars from his efforts too. They were both trying so hard, but it was difficult not to lose faith when there was still so little of their brother left.

She’s not surprised when Rickon snarls and knocks into Jon. He lands on his back with a grunt, Rickon straddling his waist. She tips her head to the side and watches as they struggle. She’s struck by the bizarre thought that they look like scrapping wolves, the way they used to play when they were boys, but that was a lifetime ago. Back then, Rickon wouldn’t have snarled and bit him. Jon wouldn’t have growled and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

He pulls him right back in, sitting up and dragging him into his lap.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, taking his arms and looping them around his neck, making him hold on, “you’re safe, Rickon. Breathe.”

Rickon still thrashes, little feral noises and grumbles falling from his lips, but Jon holds on tight. His arms lock around him like steel, keeping him close, and eventually Rickon tires himself out. He slumps against Jon’s solid chest with a little whimper that makes Sansa ache.

He stands, Rickon’s arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. Sansa thinks he looks like a little bear, soft and vulnerable and in need of protection.

 _But you didn’t protect him,_ that torturous voice flits through her mind, _neither of you did._

“I wish Bran was here,” she whispers. She wishes for him anyway, because he’s her brother and she loves him, but he was the closest in age to Rickon and they knew each other best, “he always knew what to say.”

Jon nods and lays Rickon down on the furs.

“One thing at a time, Sansa,” he says, “one day at a time.”  
  


* * *

 _  
What are you going to do with Ramsay?_ Jon had repeatedly asked in the last few weeks.

Sansa thinks about it now, as she makes her way down to the kennels.

She remembers what he had said when they were first reunited:

_You want the ones who hurt you to bleed, to break?_

She did.

_Aye, I will help you._

Of course, he _had_ helped—but how they won back Winterfell is still a contentious subject. She still feels the resentment between them brimming on the surface, just ready to break through before one of them bites it back. He doesn’t seem angry anymore but she knows he’s not happy either—and Littlefinger’s presence doesn’t help things. They’re in his debt now and they can’t send him away, even if Jon sometimes looks at him with that murderous glint in his eye, that frightening, deadly blank expression.

But she won’t apologise anymore, won’t fall to her knees and beg for his forgiveness. She did what she thought was right—and she _was_ right. They’re standing here because of _her._ She’d said sorry straight after, in his chambers before he’d sent her away, showing empathy for the fact that he was hurt. He didn’t even have the decency to do that, the day he betrayed her and killed Theon.

Jon had a short memory, was as stubborn as their father, and she was tired of being blamed for everything he couldn’t handle.

There was work to be done, the issue of deciding who truly ruled the North and putting the pieces back together, but for now—her mind was focused on Ramsay.

This was _her_ fight and it had to end.

Tonight.  
  


* * *

  
She stands on the other side of Ramsay’s cage, her hands clasped behind her back. She’d had two guards throw him into a chair and tie him up and he was so weak, he didn’t even put up a fight. His dark eyes glint in the warmth of the candlelight as he stares at her.

She liked to come down here. It had become part of her daily routine, and she’d come every afternoon, just to watch as he slowly starved.

At the beginning, he had cursed her. He had screamed the most foul insults—called her a whore, a bitch, a cunt. She had stood and taken it all, her defences impenetrable. She had come to learn that his words were just that— _words_ —and they couldn’t hurt her anymore.

By the second week, he’d taken to trying to woo her. He’d flattered her—told her that deep down, he’d always loved her but he didn’t know what to do with it. He’d tried to appeal to his upbringing, his status as a bastard, discarded and unloved. He said that she was beautiful and fierce and time had made her fiercer still. He’d promised if she just opened that cage and let him out, he’d never bother her again. He even said he was sorry.

When that didn’t work either, he’d switched like the flip of a coin.

He’d reverted to what he did best, chipping away at her self-worth, her very identity, until she didn’t know where he ended and she begun. It was what he’d done to Theon too. He’d never had the chance to reclaim that stolen identity, but Sansa did. She was working to put her fractured mind back together—and she let his cruel words flow like water off a duck’s back.

He had a monstrous sense of self-importance—but he _wasn’t_ important. He was nothing. She made sure the guards gave him just enough water to keep him alive. Sometimes she casually ate in-front of him, standing in silence while he yelled and begged and cried. Her reticence infuriated him far more than her screams.

“Back so soon, wife?”

His voice is sarcastic as it floats over her, thin with starvation and dehydration.

Still, his mouth curves into that sinister smirk. 

Barely alive, yet still so _vile._

She cuts to the chase.

“It’s time to end it all,” she says dully, “wouldn’t you agree?”

Weak as he is, his dark eyes glint with something fierce. A last ditch attempt to survive, she suspects, and his frail wrists pull at his binds.

“It’ll never end,” he insists, bites through gritted teeth. “I told you—I’m part of you now. I’ll live on through you, through everything I did to you. Through your wild little brother.”

She doesn’t let any emotion show on her face, keeping her expression passive and still.

“Rickon will survive,” she says slowly, “he is young, but he can learn. Just as you broke him, I will mend him. I will put him back together and here in Winterfell, where he is safe and warm and loved, he will heal. You have no power over us. You have nothing.”

She isn’t just saying it—she _has_ to believe it. If she doesn’t, she’ll be the one with nothing, and she has to believe some light can come from the darkness. She’s damaged too, but not beyond repair. She’ll always be darker than she was before, no longer a silly girl with silly dreams, but she feels her strength grow as the days go by.

Rickon would too.

“I highly doubt that,” Ramsay drawls, “you know, I always thought of Reek as my greatest masterpiece. I’m not too proud to admit I was obsessed. But _you,_ my dear… you were something else. Your mind was a _delight_ to break. As was Rickon’s.”

“Ramsay…” she starts, taking a step forward until her hands are curling around the steel bars, “you’re not so hard to read. You think you’re so special, so unique in your evil, but you’re just like everyone else. Predictable. Your hatred for your own bastardry and low birth is so _obvious,_ it’s almost laughable. You’re nothing. Your words are nothing. They will disappear. Your house will disappear.”

His top lip curls into a snarl, his eyes drooping with the weight of his exhaustion. It seems to sweep over him, his pale and clammy face whitening further.

He looks tired, stoic, finally resigned to his fate.

“Get on with it then.”

She quirks a brow, for once agreeing with him. She unlocks the cage, comfortable in the knowledge that he’s tied up and weakened, and walks over to him.

She feels a thrill shudder up her spine when she slowly unsheathes a dagger and watches fear flash through his eyes.

“Shall I tell you what I’m going to do first?” she says easily, breezily, because that had always been one of his favourite tricks. He loved to drum up her fear before he cut her down; he said it sweetened the blood. “I’m going to cut your balls off and let you slowly bleed out. Or perhaps I’ll slit your throat, I haven’t decided. Then I’m going to feed you to your precious hounds—as you always said, it’s not right to waste good meat. And _then…_ as you lay dying, your useless blood staining the floor, I’m going to go to my chambers and I’m going to fuck my brother. My _bastard_ brother. Because I want to. Because I can.”

Something wild blazes over his face, his body trembling with barely restrained anger. His shoulder jerks as he tries to break free and just as he opens his mouth, she pulls a rag from her sleeve and shoves it between his lips.

She doesn’t want to hear it, his pleas for mercy or cruel insults or opinions. She knows what he’ll say, probably insist he _did_ win and he _did_ break her, because what normal girl wants to fuck her brother?

She’s so _tired_ of his voice.

Something strange happens to her then. It’s like she leaves her body, floating just outside and strangely disconnected, as she aggressively unties the laces of his breeches. He grunts and struggles, fear overriding the starvation and making him strong, and his hips twist away from her.

He reeks of stale sweat, the dirt and grit of mud and the metallic tang of dry blood. She grits her teeth when she pulls his limp cock out of his breeches. He thrashes wildly, trying to tip the chair back, and she slams her other hand on the back of it to keep it still.

 _For Theon too,_ she thinks, as she puts the blade to that horrible piece of flesh. She can’t believe it could do so much damage, could hurt her so much, and her anger flares again. His screams are muffled by the rag as she tears it away from his body, letting it land in a bloody heap on the stone floor.

The blood spurts in a steady stream, coating her hands and spraying her face like warm summer rain.

She closes her eyes, her heart beating frantically in her chest, and still—Ramsay screams. She barely registers the dull clink of steel on stone as she drops the blade and takes a step back.

She blinks, watches him shriek and writhe in agony—and then she opens the cages and lets the hounds in.  
  


* * *

  
She’s still shaking, something hot and fiery in the pit of her stomach, when she knocks on Jon’s door.

It’s not a delicate knock. She practically pounds on the weathered wood, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth start to ache, and she feels hot, powerful. Perhaps it’s sick, but desire snaps at her heels and crawls up her body—starting at her on-fire cunt until she can feel it strangling her throat.

She’s on him as soon as he opens the door.

He lets out a little grunt of surprise, catching her in his arms as they collide.

She kisses him desperately, messily, her mouth slanting over his. She kicks the door shut behind her, the latch of the lock falling down with an ominous click. He lets her kiss him, pliant and yielding under her prying lips, and when she sweeps her tongue over his bottom one and demands entry, he opens his mouth for her.

Their tongues slide against each other, hot and slick, and she feels every sweep spark heat between her thighs. She’s already soaked, her body on fire and pulsing with a power she’s never felt before. It’s a heady and intoxicating feeling. 

“Fuck me,” she demands, tugging his bottom lip between her teeth, “I need to feel you inside me.”

He lets out a little sound as she releases his lip. It’s somewhere between a groan and a growl, and when she pulls back to look at him for the first time, she can see blood on his face. Ramsay’s blood. She’s smeared it from her hands to his skin, streaking from her fingers and reaching into his beard.

He must feel it too because he draws back, one brow arching as he touches his fingers to his face. He holds his hand in-front of him, notices the red on his fingers, and grabs her wrist. She can’t read the expression on his face, something dark and surprised, and his gaze flits over her blood stained hands.

“What have you done?”

She doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to explain herself because this wasn’t about him; it was about _her_. She just wants to act on this _thing_ that’s been brewing between them for months. She wants him to spread her legs and slip inside her, fuck her, rip a hole in her so the light can seep back in. She wants to push him down onto the cold stone floor and ride him into oblivion.

It wouldn’t be _making love,_ or coupling, or laying together. It would be a quick, hard fuck—desperate and frantic and angry.

“Ramsay,” is all she grunts in reply, her pale eyes wild, and she captures his mouth again in a fierce kiss. He kisses her back, his mouth sliding over hers, and he feels so warm and so good and so _hers._

He walks her backwards as they kiss, her impatient fingers tugging at the laces of his gambeson. She quickly gets it off, along with the layers he wears underneath, and his nimble fingers are behind her, unlacing her corset at the same time. He tugs and rips at the front of it, exposing her breasts, and he wastes no time in shoving his face into them.

She arches her back as he bites at her nipple, rolling it between his teeth. She wants him so badly, she’s practically shaking with it, and her hands fly to his hair. She tugs at the leather band tying it back, throwing it to the side so she can run her fingers through his curls. He grunts into her breast, any semblance of resistance he had fading away.

He wants her too.

Her back hits the wall, his mouth swallowing her gasp of surprise. It’s frenzied, everything moving faster, pulsing hotter and brighter than before. She quickly shrugs her dress down her body, stepping out of it and nudging it to the side with her foot. He rids her of her underlayers, her smallclothes, until she’s naked—with nothing but Ramsay’s cold blood and a thin layer of sweat covering her.

She watches his pupils blow to black, lust flashing like a lightning bolt through them. The blood painting her skin only seems to spur him on and when he kisses her again, it feels desperate, violent in its intensity.

She can see his cock straining against his breeches. She thinks of Ramsay’s and knows she’ll get an entirely different sort of pleasure from this. Her palm flies out to cup him, smearing blood on his breeches, and he snarls a low growl between his teeth.

She squeezes the hard line of his cock, revels in his little grunt, before she places the same hand on his lips. She brushes the last of the blood there, painting his mouth with it, and then she kisses him.

It’s a messy kiss, all sweeping wet tongues and clashing teeth. She helps rid of him of his breeches and smallclothes and then he’s as naked as she is. His hands travel to her ass, his fingers digging into her fleshy behind, before he lifts her and she wraps her legs around his waist.

The head of his cock kisses her wet cunt before he aligns it with her glistening slit. He gives a few shallow thrusts, his thick length sliding against her clit. She breaks away from his mouth with a desperate moan.

His mouth is at her ear.

“Tell me what you did.”

He’s more wolf than man now, his voice low and dark, and she clenches her thighs around his hips.

“I cut his cock off.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” it’s half a laugh, half a groan—and he buries his face in her neck. He leaves kisses down the length of her flushed skin, the grit of his stubble sliding over her throat.

“Do you like that?” she whispers back, her hands curling tight around his hair. She tugs at his curls, making him hiss, “only someone filthy and base would like that.”

There’s a flash of white teeth as his mouth tips into a dangerous smirk.

“Aye, is that what I am then?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you are?”

“Yes,” her catches on a moan, “wouldn’t you agree?”

“I am what you are,” he says somewhat cryptically, “I go where you go.”

His hand goes between her wet thighs then, his fingers finding her swollen and protruding nub. He rubs it in tight circles, feels her gush for him.

“Fuck me,” she demands again, feeling like she’s burning from the inside out. She doesn’t want to wait anymore.

He holds her up with one strong arm as his other travels to his cock. He gives it one, two, three pumps before he’s lining it up with her soaking entrance.

She holds her breath, feels the world pause.

Then he sinks into her.

The pleasure is almost blinding, immediate and intense. Her thighs tremble around his narrow waist, her hands flying to his hair. She loops her arms around his neck as he starts to move, fucking her in shallow thrusts, and when she kisses him again, she tastes Ramsay’s blood.

She licks inside his mouth, nipping at his lip like a wolf, feeling the sharp scrape of his teeth against her own. The wet sounds of flesh on flesh penetrate the silence as he fucks her against the wall, her wetness clenching around his thick length.

He pumps into her, hard and fast, his cock almost pulling out of her cunt before he pushes back in to the hilt.

“Is that how you like it?” he growls, tearing away from her mouth to suck a bloom into her neck.

She doesn’t know how she likes it—but she knows she likes _this_ , so she arches her back and moans her assent.

She feels the power in every thrust, the _fury_ that emanates off him in waves. He pulls out almost entirely and slams back in.

“Fuck,” she hisses through her teeth as she’s shunted up the wall, the head of his cock kissing her womb. She arches her hips and meets him thrust for thrust, her heels digging into the small of his back, her toes curling.

“Please,” she sobs for nothing in particular, lost to the feeling.

“Harder?” he asks, his pelvis grinding against her clit as he bottoms out. A violent shudder traces up her spine.

“Yes. Harder, more.”

Both hands fly to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin, as he slides her up and down his cock.

“What would your Mother say?” he husks, making her pause, “what would she think of her pretty, highborn daughter, begging for bastard cock? I don’t think Lady Catelyn would like that very much, would she, Sansa?”

She’s undeterred by his dirty words, her mouth curling into a smirk.

“I don’t think father would either,” she breaths, “he trusted you, defended you… now look at you, with your cock buried inside his daughter.”

He growls, his mouth sliding over hers in another filthy kiss.

“I can’t help it…” he grunts, “…she has such a sweet cunt.”

Her eyes roll back as he hits the perfect spot inside her. He must feel her sensing the edge because he licks his thumb and puts it to her clit, rubbing it in tight circles. She feels that hot coil twist tight in the pit of her stomach.

“That’s it,” he coos, egging her on, “come on my cock.”

His words have their intended effect, causing her to fly into an orgasm so intense, she swears she sees stars. He’s right behind, pulling his cock out of her well fucked, swollen cunt with a growl and spurting his seed on her inner thigh.

She feels it drip down her leg as he shudders in the afterglow, holding her for a moment before he puts her back down on shaky legs.

She rests her forehead against his—and licks a speck of blood from his cheek.


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa blinks as she comes back to life, still groggy with sleep and the exertion of the day before.

Through the fog in her mind, she registers that she's not in her own bed. The sheets smell different, more masculine and heady, and the room is sparse and bare. Rather than one of Melisandre's dresses, there's a gambeson hanging over the chair, and Ghost is at the foot of the bed, his breath casting misty shadows on the stone.

The most telling hint, however, is the heavy arm slung over her waist.

The memories of last night sear behind her eyes - the damp wetness of Ramsay's blood on her hands, the sound of his agonised screams, the stench of flesh ripped from bone as his hounds took their fill. The image flickers to what happened next- Jon's touch, his kiss, his mouth, not expunging her of her sin but damning her to a new one.

She wouldn't have it any other way; she _thanked_ him for it.

She can feel a headache forming, just behind her temples, the same sensation she had felt the morning after mother let her drink wine for the first time on one of father's namedays, or when she tried to wash away her pain and drown her sorrows at one of Joffrey's feasts. She had taken to drinking quite often in Kings Landing. She would steal whatever she could, even the ale she hated, her nose scrunching at the sour taste but her insides grateful for the burn as it scorched its way down her throat. She understood then why Lord Tyrion drank so much; she understood the appeal.

Now it appeared she had succumbed to a different vice entirely - and her tired body shifts in her brother's arms.

His chest is solid against her back, every battle honed muscle tight and strong. She shifts again, trying not to wake him, to run away so she can avoid coming to terms with whatever _this_ is for a moment longer. It's cowardly and weak but she's never been one to think about the long term. She had wanted him then, so she took him.

It was how she had lived her entire life, a spoiled little child caring only for instant gratification. Her father told her she was special, her mother told her she was perfect. Robb had been proud to call her his sister, always giving her a lopsided smile and telling her they were one, with their auburn hair and Tully blue eyes. For a time, they were the only true-born Starks in Winterfell and he loved her in a way that was fierce and unconditional. Bran and Rickon had adored her too, always wanting her to be the one to sing them to sleep, and even Arya had admitted in a begrudging way that she was the perfect little lady, everything they were raised to be.

Even back then - though she now knows it wasn't the case - Jon was the only one who seemed immune to her charms.

His affection for her had been cold and detached, there because it had to be. He would smile politely, a twitch of the lips that never quite met his eyes. He would tip his chin as she walked past and treat her with respect, but she got the impression he didn't think her perfect at all.

Her family is gone and things have changed, but his unwillingness to pander to her has not. He still tests her, pushes her, won't just _give._ It infuriates her. She's petulant and impatient whereas he could wait all day. She wants to win the game and he doesn't even care to play.

She feels a rock in the pit of her stomach, the desire to run flaring hot inside her. There's a cramp in her calf and her arm has gone dead and she rolls her body again. She tries to slip away, to slither off the bed, grab what's left of her dress to cover her naked body and tip toe to the door when Jon shifts behind her.

"Where do you think you're going?"

His voice is a deep husk in her ear, sending a shiver rocketing down her spine, and she sighs in defeat.

"It's the morning."

He lets out a little hum, uncaring.

"So it is."

She shifts again, only it's the wrong thing to do because it brings attention to the way his length is pressing against her behind, already half-hard.

Her body moves without her permission, her hips canting, searching for more.

She feels the curve of his mouth against her neck, the heat of his breath as he places a gentle kiss behind her ear.

The arm slung around her waist starts to move, the backs of his fingers drifting down her bare stomach. She holds her breath as those fingers gracefully twist and then they're _there,_ slipping between her thighs.

She releases the breath, a trembling little sound, and she's wet already and desperate and half-way to begging.

His mouth is still at her ear as two of his fingers slide up and down her slit. He plays her like an instrument, spreading the slickness at her entrance and circling her clit teasingly with one finger. It's silent save for her fractured pants and his even breathing and he brings her to the edge and pulls her right back again.

"Still want to leave?" he whispers, turning his face to place a simple kiss on her cheek.

"Don't tease me," she grits out in response, her face on fire as she turns it to the pillow.

His beard is rough against her neck, leaving a pleasant burn, and his fingers begin to move faster. She doesn't know why - she dares to let herself think he's as desperate for her as she is for him - but he listens to her and stops teasing. Two of his fingers dip inside her and her face bursts into heat again at the lewd, wet sounds as he fucks her with them.

Her hips buck, her back arching and her head rolling onto his shoulders as she chases her pleasure. He must notice her furiously biting her bottom lip because he tuts and shakes his head.

"No," he says, "let me hear you."

Her lip rolls from her teeth with a moan.

"That's it," he husks, practically _croons,_ "such a good girl."

Maybe it's because she's so tormented by the idea that she's bad, but the words send her over the edge. Her tight cunt grips his fingers, a gush of wetness coating to his wrist, and his thumb gently swipes circles on her oversensitive clit.

She's still trembling when he shifts, lifts her thigh and guides his cock inside her.

"Fuck," she blurts out in a moan of half-pleasure, half-surprise, " _Jon."_

He grunts in response, the hot sound muffled by the flushed skin of her neck as his hips rock into her. It's a rolling, lazy sort of fuck, his hand coming up to gently grip her neck. His fingers are still wet from her cunt and they apply a delicious pressure, sparking heat between her thighs.

As his cock slides in and out of her soaking channel, the fingers around her neck travel to her cheek. He turns her face and angles her mouth so he can cover it with his. It's a messy, desperate kiss - all tongues, teeth, heat and passion - and when she bites his bottom lip, the growl he releases is more animal than man.

"Harder," she demands just like the night before, lost to pleasure, to madness.

He cocks a brow, pulling out only to push back in again to the hilt. Her eyelids flutter as he keeps himself there, pushed deep inside her.

"Like that?"

" _Yes_ ," she hisses. She leans in and kisses him again. His mouth is hard, hers is soft, and her probing tongue forces his lips open. She licks inside, the movement of their tongues mimicking their hips below. When he hits the perfect spot, she breaks away with a heated gasp. " _Gods,_ right there. Don't stop."

But he does stop.

He pulls out with a growl and flips her over before she can react.

She frowns, about to protest, but then he's canting her hips up with an arm wrapped around her stomach from behind and guiding his wet cock back inside her.

She bites back her moan, her breasts pressed against the bed and her ass in the air. Her hands scramble for purchase, her breath in her throat, and her fingers curl the dark sheets into fists.

He sets a fast and ruthless pace and she revels in it, pushing back onto him. For a moment, he stops moving altogether and she bounces on his cock, sliding herself up and down. His arms stay by his side while she does that, a sort of casual indifference that annoys her and turns her on at the same time. He's irritatingly quiet, just the occasional growl or grunt when she moves just like _that_ , and she chases that sound.

Eventually, that iron clad control he keeps on himself seems to snap and he grabs her hips. He thrusts into her harder, his balls slapping against her clit, and the room is filled with the lewd sounds of flesh on flesh.

A moan bubbles in her throat, bursting out into a sob when he pulls back and slaps her ass.

"Fuck," she moans heatedly and then demands, "again."

He growls his approval, giving her another slap, his palm leaving behind a pleasant burn. It surprises her, how much she likes the idea of being marked by him. She wonders if it's perverse, wrong, especially after everything she's been through.

She clenches around his length and he's so hard and so deep inside her and he fills her so perfectly. She tips her head back, her hair falling to the small of her back in a sea of red.

She's going to come again, she can feel it, so she snakes a hand between her thighs to help herself along.

"No," he growls, pushing her hand away as his thrusts quicken, "you're going to come on just my cock."

She moans heavily at the dirty words, the command. Even now, he can't just let her _win_ and she would roll her eyes if she wasn't so desperate. But then - it doesn't feel like a loss when that hot coil threatens to snap in the pit of her stomach.

He fucks her harder into the sheets, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. She isn't entirely aware of what she's saying as she moans, her toes curling into the bed, and then she's _there._ The orgasm starts at the base of her spine and rockets through her entire body, a bright explosion behind her eyes.

She milks his cock, her inner walls convulsing around him, and it fires his own release. He groans, louder and deeper than before, and pulls out just in time for his cum to splatter on her inner thighs. She shivers in the afterglow, her thighs trembling, as she collapses to the bed. She rolls onto her back, a flush sheen of sweat covering her body.

He lays next to her, pulling her into his side, and she arches a brow. She had never taken him for a cuddler. His mouth travels to her head as he places a gentle kiss into her hair.

"Perhaps I'll never let you go again," he quips.

 _Please,_ she thinks.  
  


* * *

  
One day, a cold and dreary day that should be like any other, Rickon starts to walk again.

It starts with him pulling himself up, a little hand appearing on the arm of Sansa's chair as he tries to tug himself upright. Her eyes widen and she drops the book she's reading, letting it lay discarded in her lap. She stares down at him, her heart in her throat. She stays still. If she speaks, if she moves, maybe the moment will break, and she doesn't want to startle him.

She does shift so she's on the edge of the seat, so she can see him more clearly.

He's on his haunches like always, but there's a concentrated frown furrowing his brows and he pulls himself up. He lets out a guttural grunt and he looks like one of the fawns in the godswood, trembling and wobbly on unsteady legs. On the first attempt, he barely gets upright before he falls down again and screeches in frustration.

"It's alright, Rickon," Sansa soothes, even and calm, " _again._ "

He huffs, the puff of air brushing away a strand of hair that she's recently cut, and he tries again.

This time, when he curls both hands around the arm of her chair and drags himself upright, he stays there. His knees wobble and his frown intensifies but after one, two, three seconds... he's still standing.

Sansa _laughs._

"That's it," she whispers, leaning forward and cup his cheeks, "that's it, Rickon."

He stares at her for a beat, expression feral and vacant - the _same_ \- before suddenly, the corner of his mouth lifts. The muscles in his face twitch, as though they're trying to remember how to smile.

Then, he _does_ smile.

He smiles and she does too, leaning forward to pepper delighted kisses on his face.

Something warm flares to life in her chest, an emotion she doesn't think she's felt since before she journeyed South.

She remembers it to be happiness - and she smiles so wide, her cheeks start to ache.  
  


* * *

  
Rickon rarely leaves her side.

When he's not with her, he's with Jon and they're almost like a mother and father to him and it might not be normal but it's _helping._

He still can't speak, won't speak, and he still has fits of feral wildness, but he walks and that's enough for now.

She holds his hand as they walk through the courtyard. When Sansa catches sight of Petyr Baelish approaching her, she wants to turn around. But he's seen her now, she realises with a resigned sigh, and then he's standing in-front of her.

His hands are clasped behind his back as his calculated gaze flickers from her to her brother and back again.

She doesn't want him looking at Rickon. She feels the wolf in her when it comes to him, something wild and protective, and she narrows her gaze and angles him behind her slightly.

"Good morning, my lady," he says softly, "how delightful it is to see you well - you and your brother."

Rickon curls into her, his face buried in her dress like when he was a babe, and her hand comes to soothingly stroke through his curls.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," she realises she hasn't technically thanked him for his support in winning back Winterfell and she supposes she should, even if the words do feel like poison on her tongue, "and thank you for your aid in the battle."

He nods, straightening his back.

"You are most welcome," he says and she wants him to just get on with it, to tell her what he wants. She thinks she _knows_ what he wants, her insides twisting uncomfortably at the notion, but she wishes he would just admit it.

"Have you thought about what comes next?" he's speaking again, his head tipping to the side inquisitively.

"What comes next?"

"Well, news of the battle will soon spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I have declared for House Stark," he starts, "here in the North, there is still the question of who the Lords should rally behind."

"You have declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish, and you have gone back on your word," she says dully, "we have only just returned and I am focused on my brother for now. Besides, who the Lords should rally behind is not a question at all. Rickon is alive, and so he is Lord of Winterfell."

With Bran lost, he is the last trueborn son of Ned Stark and the concept is very simple.

And yet, Baelish quirks a brow.

"Your brother is a child and..." he pauses, as though to find the politest way to put it as his eyes flit over him, "...not of sound mind."

The need to defend him flares inside Sansa as she narrows her eyes again.

"He will get better," she says simply - because how can he not?

Baelish clicks his tongue.

"I've heard of Ramsay's brutality," he starts, "it would take someone of extraordinary... will and character to survive that and retain any semblance of self."

"Oh, you've heard?" she repeats bitterly, "I've _lived_ it. So please - tell me more about Ramsay and what he can do. Could do, I should say, seeing as he's dead now."

Rickon tugs on her hand, an impatient growl escaping his throat, and she hushes him quietly.

"Yes, I heard," Littlefinger says, "I was most impressed."

"I don't care, Lord Baelish," she sighs tiredly, "this conversation bores me. Stay if you want - or go, I really don't care. But please don't lecture on me on what to do with my brother or my home. The Lords will rally behind Rickon... and until he is of age and well, Jon and I will rule in his stead."

She tries to push past him but his hand, gently wrapping around the crook of her elbow, stops her.

"And you think that will be enough for Jon?"

Her eyes flicker to his face and she registers his expression, calculating and sinister.

"What?"

"He's not the man you grew up with."

Anger kicks at her like a mule again. "Oh, you know _him_ better too?"

"No, my lady, I don't," he concedes, "but I know men - and I know bastards. I am only looking out for you, my dear."

She stares at him, trying to keep her face blank and unreadable. She doesn't want to give anything away. He smells weakness like blood in the water, uses it for his own gain. His care comes wrapped in thorns. He would throw her to the wolves to save himself and he had. He had traded her for the Boltons and no amount of support, no army from the Vale, no honey-coated words would ever make her forget that.

Rickon is still fussing, an angry scowl on his face, and she sighs, leaning down to pick him up.

He curls into her, his arms looping around her neck and his legs around her waist. He's far too old and heavy for it but mentally, he's more like a child and she holds on tight, even as her arms ache from the strain. She arches away from him slightly, removing his hands from her hair when his fingers tug an auburn strand a bit too aggressively. Rickon pouts, annoyed.

"I will keep in that mind," she lies and begins to walk away from him, "good day, Lord Baelish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! It's been a while, huh? This chapter has been inspired by Salon_Kitty. I was reading their (frankly amazing) fic The Book of the Stranger (check it out) and they asked me when the next chapter of this was coming and I just couldn't say. To be honest, I fell out of love with this fic a little and have been really struggling for the inspiration to finish it. Sometimes writing something this angsty and dark can take its toll and you just need to take a step back. But Salon_Kitty, you kinda kicked my butt into gear so thank you <3 you made me realise I wanted to dive back in. 
> 
> So I hope you all enjoyed this and appreciated the healthy dose of smut as a sorry ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update so soon! I'm so pleased my inspiration stayed and a lot of that is down to your lovely reviews, thank you :)

  
  


* * *

  
"I want Littlefinger gone," Sansa mumbles, tipping her head back so she can look at him.

Jon lets out a frustrated grunt, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His hard length twitches in her hand, the mushroomed head almost purple and weeping from the tip.

"Can we not talk about Petyr Baelish while my cock is in your mouth?"

Her lips twitch, her eyes flickering from his face to the throbbing appendage in her hand and back again.

"Your cock isn't in my mouth," she argues coyly.

He narrows his eyes, one hand coming to lightly grip his length while the other wraps in her hair. He gives the auburn strands a little tug, watches as desire flashes through her eyes, and presses the head of his cock against her red lips.

"Open," he demands, his eyes darkening.

She stares him down, stubborn and defiant, and lets her tongue flick out. She tastes the salty pre-cum that beads from his slit. She likes it, feels a flare of possessiveness in the pit of her stomach. It's the only way she can have his seed inside her. After-all, she'll never be able to hold him as he shudders and fills her greedy, desperate cunt with it. He's her half-brother, not her lord husband, even if she sometimes allows herself to forget.

But he seems to find it easy to forget too. He doesn't seem bothered, doesn't seem tortured by it, as the fat head of his cock swipes against the seam of her lips again.

"Open your mouth," he says slowly, his tone low and dark. It's a rough brogue that shoots straight to her soaking cunt and she rubs her thighs together to try and relieve the ache.

She kisses the tip again, tries to hide her smirk at his frustrated groan.

"Beg."

He stiffens, his hands still in her hair.

"What?"

"You heard me," she murmurs and gives the underside of his throbbing cock one lick from base to tip, "show me how much you want it."

He rolls his eyes, one hand returning to his side as the other moves to cup her face. She nuzzles into it like a wolf, her breath dampening his palm.

"Do I look like the sort of man who begs?"

She smiles against his skin, her mouth travelling to his wrist as she sits back on her calves. She places an open-mouthed kiss where his pulse should be, feels it beating slower than hers. Slower than what's normal. It makes her pause. Sometimes she forgets where he's been, how he was dragged from the other side, how he was so very lost.

He's still lost.

"Do I look like the sort of girl who's used to being on her knees?" she counters, her hand still stroking absentmindedly along his silky, rigid length. He's only growing harder under her touch. Their teasing, their back and forth... it's not irritating him or frustrating him. It's _arousing_ him.

His mouth tips into a deadly smile, disarming and smooth.

"No, you're quite the lady."

"Sometimes I don't want to be," she whispers, her mouth just grazing along him, "sometimes I want it rough."

His hand tugs her back, his thumb rubbing gently over her plump bottom lip.

"You want me to treat you like my whore?" he murmurs casually, as though he's asking about the weather.

The words shoot between her legs.

"As long as I'm yours."

His eyes flash slightly darker.

"But..." she sits back again with a dramatic sigh, her hands resting on her thighs, "...you give so little. You won't even beg for me. Perhaps you don't want me—"

Her steals the next words from her mouth, his hand wrapping in her hair again and tugging her head back so she can see him clearly. His top lip is slightly curled, his pupils blown to black.

"No-one will ever want you more than I do."

She feels the words in her chest—a tight, burning ache.

"So _beg,_ " she demands, refusing to relent.

There's a flash of white teeth as he bites his bottom lip.

"Let me fuck this pretty mouth," he mutters, his thumb swiping across her lip to pull it from her teeth and she's going to chastise him again but then he adds, " _please."_

 _I thought about that highborn mouth wrapped around my bastard cock,_ she hears his smouldering voice in her ear as she decides to put him out of his misery. He's wanted this for a long time, after-all, and so has she.

She doesn't tease him. She opens her mouth and takes his whole cock, relaxing her throat until she can feel him hit the back of it. His jaw clenches and he _groans_ , both hands coming to entwine in her hair. His head tips back, his eyes falling shut, as his hips start to thrust gently. She can see the corded muscles of his neck, feel the way his fingers twitch, every strong muscle pulled taut with the strength of his restraint.

She can feel him growing harder and pulsing in her mouth. The stone is cold and hard under her bare knees but she doesn't care, desire sparking hot and intense between her thighs. Her cunt is aching, on fire, and she wants to touch herself. She doesn't. She'll wait until after, when he'll undoubtedly thank her by putting his mouth on her. She feels an excited flutter of anticipation shudder through her.

She brings a hand to his balls, her nails scratching lightly over the sensitive skin and making him hiss. He tugs a little tighter on her hair and her moan vibrates and ripples down the length of his cock.

"Fuck," he pants, his grip tightening, and when she takes the whole length of him, feels him bump the back of her throat, he grunts, "do that again."

She moans around him, pushing past the ache in her jaw. There's a fire in her throat, her gag reflex flaring, and she pulls back to take a breath. Her breath falls in heavy pants, her mouth attached to his cock by a thin line of saliva, and she takes another breath before swallowing him again.

"Gods, look at you..." he mutters roughly, his hips rolling as he fucks her mouth, "...taking my cock so well."

She moans at the praise, wanting him to call her a good girl, wanting him to say her name. He doesn't, but his cock jerks and swells and he's close and that's good enough.

"I'm going to come," he warns her, his voice dark and his fingers flexing in her hair.

She hums around him and pulls back just long enough to mutter, "come in my mouth."

A thick growl rumbles from his throat as he obeys her command. It's as easy as the snap of her fingers, the flick of her wrist, and she thinks he obeys rather slavishly for a man who had refused to beg.

She moans as thick ropes of cum bathe her throat, the taste somehow both salty and sweet on her tongue. She swallows every drop, everything he'll give her, her mouth sliding along his length so she doesn't miss a drop. She revels in the way he shudders, his chest rising and falling with every rapid breath. His beautiful, scarred skin shines with a flush sheen of sweat.

She sits back on her haunches, looking up at him through heavy lashes. His thumb swipes against the edge of her mouth before it pushes her swollen lips apart. She realises what he's doing when she tastes his salty cum again. She must have missed a drop.

At the back of her mind, she registers her surprise at how much she enjoyed the act. She never thought she would before Ramsay and she certainly didn't think she would after. She had hated the way he pushed her head and made her gag. She hated the powerlessness, the fear.

But she didn't feel powerless with Jon, she didn't feel scared, and maybe that was the difference.

He yanks her up, picking her up effortlessly and depositing her on the bed, and then his hot tongue is licking her cunt like she knew it would be.

She suddenly realises she'd forgotten all about Petyr Baelish—and then Jon's fingers are inside her and she forgets about him again.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa stares at the sheets of parchment in-front of her, her eyes wide and shocked.

"Ser Davos..." she whispers, her fingers trailing over the uneven surfaces in awe, "...these are _incredible._ "

When she pulls back, she feels the rough grit of charcoal on her fingers, sees them painted in shadowy black. She reminds herself not to do that again, not to touch the beautiful pictures, no matter how much she wants to. She wants them preserved.

Davos shrugs, his cheeks tinged slightly red as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

"I just drew what you described," he says, like it's nothing when it's _everything._

She had been surprised when she'd learned he could draw, Jon telling her he was a man of many secret talents. He's a warrior _and_ an artist, it seems, and an ache flares in her chest again when she looks at the portraits he's created for her.

There are five of them - one for each family member she's loved and lost.

Her eyes and throat burn as her fingers hover over her father's stern brow, the curl to her mother's hair. She swallows thickly at how perfectly he's captured Arya's smile, that hint of mischief. She wasn't sure she'd described it properly, wasn't sure if she had the words. She wonders if he ever crossed paths with Robb because his is the most accurate, so handsome and strong. Finally, she takes in Bran's round and youthful face, the only way she remembers him, and she hopes he's alive and happy somewhere. She hopes he looks older now.

"I can't thank you enough for this," she whispers, a little choked.

He smiles his friendly smile.

"No need. I hope it helps."

She nods.

"It will," she says because it has to - and then she goes to find Rickon.  
  


* * *

  
Jon's fingers tap on the wood of his desk as Sansa takes a patient breath.

"Mama," she enunciates, pointing to the picture of Catelyn Stark. She's sitting crossed legged on the floor, Rickon opposite her, the roaring fire between them. Jon is at his desk, his cheek resting on his fist. He looks bored.

"You could help," she sighs, exasperated, when she's unable to keep Rickon's attention.

Jon shrugs.

"She wasn't my mother."

Sansa rolls her eyes.

"No, but _he—_ " she picks up Davos' drawing of Ned Stark, the parchment half bathed in candlelight, "—was your father. _They—_ " she puts it down and points to the other three portraits, "—are your siblings."

She uses the present tense this time, refusing to believe Arya and Bran are lost. She thinks they're out there somewhere, just waiting to be found, waiting to come home. She's lost Robb, that much is undeniable, but she doesn't want to admit they're probably gone too.

Jon cocks a brow but doesn't say anything else and she rolls her eyes again.

She pushes Catelyn to the side for now and drags Ned's picture closer.

"Rickon," she calls for him, trying to capture his attention and he mumbles, crawling closer.

He tips his head to the side, peering at the portrait curiously.

It's a better reaction than Catelyn got at least and she tries to remain optimistic.

"Papa," she says, her lips moving purposefully slow.

Rickon frowns, shaking his head.

She's not sure what that means so she taps her father's face and says it again.

"Papa," she repeats, "can you say it?"

He doesn't—and so she moves on to Robb.

"Robb," she says, hoping one syllable will be easier for him, " _Robb._ Our eldest brother. He was kind and strong. You wanted to be just like him."

He would follow him like a shadow, tugging on his tunic and begging him to play. There's an ache in Sansa's chest as she remembers he always would. Even if he was busy or father wanted his help in the courtyard or Jeyne Poole was flirting with him—he always found time to play with Rickon.

Robb deserved better.

Rickon's lips form a pout, his brows furrowing, and it looks like he's about to make an "r" sound.

Sansa's eyes widen and out of the corner of them, she notices Jon lean forward a bit too.

"Yes," she urges, "Robb."

Rickon makes the face again but all that comes out is a growl. He falls back onto his behind and crosses his legs, his hand slapping down on the stone mindlessly. Sansa tries not to let her disappointment show.

She tips her chin, determined to be strong, to carry on.

She takes Arya's picture next.

"Arya," she says, her chest clenching at the sight of her only sister.

They had never seen eye to eye. They had never understood each other and at times, Sansa had wished for a different sister entirely. She remembers how she'd scowl when she pulled on her soiled leathers or chased the butcher's boy around with a stick. She remembers when King Robert had ridden into Winterfell with his family, how she'd wished for a sister like Myrcella, someone sweet and delicate.

She had been so blind.

A wave of guilt crashes over her.

She suddenly sees her vision blur and still, Rickon refuses to listen, his fists banging on the ground.

"Rickon, _please_ ," she mutters quietly, a headache forming. There's an ache in her temples and she touches her fingers to the sides of her head, rubbing softly.

She feels, more than sees, Jon stand.

He walks over to her and then his hand is gently clasping her shoulder.

"Maybe that's enough for tonight."

Sansa shrugs him off, her jaw clenching stubbornly. She feels wetness on her cheek and furiously brushes it away.

"Bran," she practically spits, picking the parchment up and slamming it down. She shoves it towards Rickon. "You loved him. He was your favourite."

"Sansa—"

"No, Jon," she insists wildly, her eyes bearing into him as he sits down crossed legged next to her. He regards her for a moment, his eyes frustratingly cool as they flit over her, and she turns back to Rickon.

He's listening to her at least, his head cocked curiously.

"You did everything together," she says, her index finger tapping Bran's face, "you were never apart. You _have_ to remember him."

But he doesn't.

His face is blank, his eyes blinking slowly.

A sob wells in Sansa's throat.

"This is hopeless," she mutters, running an agitated hand over her face.

Jon sighs, his expression stony and dark, and she wonders how he can be so _indifferent_ all the time. Doesn't he care at all? She feels angry and bitter and devastated and a dozen other emotions she can't even begin to decipher.

"One thing at a time, Sansa," he repeats quietly, the same as before, "one day at a time."

She shakes her head, too stubborn and impatient to wait.

"He'll get there," he insists, "he has to walk before he can run."

She sighs, placing her head in her hands. They sit like that for a moment before she feels a weight in her lap. She assumes it's Jon, putting his hand on her thigh to comfort her, and she doesn't want his touch right now.

"Jon, don't. Not right now."

"It's not me," his smooth voice comes from beside her.

She opens her eyes and sees Rickon climb in her lap, his hand having been on her thigh.

She sits back slightly, surprised.

Rickon blinks up at her with wide, inquisitive eyes.

Then his scarred hand comes up to her face.

She closes her eyes, her heart in her throat, as his calloused fingers travel the length of her face. He touches her eyelids, makes her wince as his fingers prod a little too roughly.

"Gently, Rickon."

Jon's voice soothes before he can poke her eye out.

Rickon's shoulders tense a little before he relaxes again—and when he returns his hand to her face, his touch is softer. He runs his fingertips over her cheek, down the smooth line of her nose, across her full lips.

Then, he opens his mouth and a croaky noise comes out. It looks like he's trying to remember how to use his vocal cords again, like they've wasted away, a muscle that atrophies from lack of use.

She inhales sharply, waiting with bated breath, and Jon is stiff beside her too.

Just like when his first attempt at walking failed, Rickon opens his mouth and tries again.

This time, his lips form an unmistakable word and he whispers—

" _Mama_."

Sansa's eyes widen, her gaze sliding to Jon.

He's already looking at her, his own brow raised.

"Rickon, I—"

"Mama," he says again and he looks so proud of himself, it makes her ache.

"No, Rickon," she whispers, " _Sansa._ "

He frowns.

" _San-zuh_ ," he tries then shakes his head like that isn't right, "Mama," he says again.

She purses her lips into a thin line, conflicting emotions coursing through her, and then he's climbing out of her lap and into Jon's.

Jon stiffens and it's a new and curious thing, to see him so unsure.

Rickon's fingers travel across the planes of Jon's face too, tracing every line like a map. He touches the scar above his eye, the pout of his lips, the grit of his beard. Everything that makes him strong and beautiful. 

Then, he mumbles—

" _Papa_."

Jon's brows rise, his chest constricting as he takes a breath.

He doesn't correct him like she did. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets their brother explore his face.

"Jon, this isn't right," Sansa whispers uncomfortably.

"We're his family," he murmurs back, "we're all he has."

He's not Ned and she's not Catelyn, but they _are_ Starks who love him—his wolves, his pack.

A knock on the door breaks the pretty picture.

"Come in," Jon calls out, the boom of his voice making Rickon jump slightly. He scrambles out of his lap and into Sansa's again. She holds him, her fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

Davos stands on the other side of the door, a scroll in his hand.

"A letter for you, Lord Commander."

Jon stands, brushing some dust off his breeches.

"From?"

Davos extends his hand, turning the scroll over so Jon can see the wax stamp emblazoned on it.

"The Citadel," he says, "news from Samwell Tarly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this story, I tagged "barely a love story tbh" because I wanted to make this angsty and dark (and it is) but... it's definitely turning into a love story😂 hopefully the little moments of softness are okay. A nice reprieve, I like to think?
> 
> EDIT: YA KNOW WHAT, I'm taking the tag out. Because even though this is some angsty, heavy shit, there IS love here. Even if its a love story between Rickon and his siblings, or Sansa and herself. Our boy Jon isn't one dimensional.


	17. Chapter 17

  
Sansa watches Jon’s eyes scan over the parchment, his expression characteristically dark and shuttered.

“Davos,” he mutters eventually, his gaze flicking to the man still standing in the doorway, “take Rickon away.”

Rickon growls in disapproval, his brows drawing into a frown, and Sansa finds it strangely reassuring. He understood the words, was able to weave them together like fine tapestry, rather than lonely, singular threads. She stands up while still holding him, his legs clinging around her waist.

Davos takes a step forward, his hand reaching for Rickon, but the boy bats it away. He bares his teeth, a little growl like a wolf rolling from his chest.

“Rickon,” Jon says again, his voice dark and stern, “do as you’re told.”

A little shudder rolls through her at his severe tone. His limbs look taut with the effort of restraining his temper, a storm brewing behind his black eyes.

“I can take him,” she tries with a little shrug, taking a step towards the door.

“No,” his tone is short and clipped, “ _you_ can stay.”

She thinks about refusing, but she wants to know what’s on the parchment, what’s managed to ruffle those constantly indifferent feathers. He’s so uninterested, uncaring… she’s desperate to know anything that moves him.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs to the boy in her arms, “go with Ser Davos now.”

Rickon grumbles but acquiesces, slipping down from her hip to walk to the man. He wobbles a little and he’s still unsteady on his feet, but Sansa’s chest swells with pride. He’s improving every day, learning from her and Jon and growing in strength.

Once he reaches him, Rickon stares up Davos, his expression expectant.

Davos’ gaze slides from the boy to Sansa, looking confused and a little helpless.

“He’s waiting for you to take his hand,” Sansa says, amused. She watches the knight rub at the back of his neck awkwardly.

Rickon huffs impatiently.

“Aye, so he is,” Davos rumbles, his fingers flexing slightly before he encloses his hand in Rickon’s. The boy makes a little pleased sound and then _he’s_ tugging _him_ out the door.

It closes with a click and then they’re alone.

She turns around to see Jon pouring two cups of wine. The liquid is dark and rich, her favourite arbour gold, but she’s not particularly thirsty.

“I’m okay, thank you,” she says when he extends his arm to give her a cup.

He arches a brow, a little exhale escaping him.

“Trust me,” he says lowly, “you’ll need it.”

 _Trust me,_ he says, so she does, taking the drink from him.

Then, while he lifts his own cup to his lips, he passes her the scroll from the Citadel.

She keeps her focus on him for a moment, her narrowed eyes taking in his grim expression, before she unrolls the parchment.

She starts to read.

_Jon,_

_It feels as though I have written and rewritten this letter a thousand times. The words are hard to find. I must confess, I considered not writing it at all. I considered not telling you the most startling truth I have discovered, buried in the pages of High Septon Maynard’s diary._

_I am sure the name means little to you. It meant little to me. I found the book amongst the ones I had stolen from the forbidden library. I hope you will not judge me for this; I don’t imagine you will. I imagine you rolling your eyes and laughing, asking when I became so brave. This is not a digression. I am brave because of you, Jon. You believed in me when no-one else did. You protected me and taught me how to be strong. This is why I must tell you the truth. You never gave up on me and so I will not give up on you._

_At first, I dismissed the diary, tired of reading about the achievements of better men. Indeed, I thought only of the threat beyond the wall, and why the Citadel was doing nothing about it. It was when Gilly tried to read the diary aloud, practicing as she does most nights, that it caught my attention. She started talking about the annulment and subsequent remarriage of a “Prince Ragger”._

_Rhaegar was the name she meant to say, and the prince in question Rhaegar Targaryen. Septon Maynard writes how he annulled his marriage to Elia Martel and married him in secret to Lyanna Stark instead._

_More than this, the two had a child and that child is you, Jon._

_You were born in a tower in Dorne, given to Ned Stark as Lyanna bled out on her birthing bed. He swore to his sister that he would protect you and he did—right until his dying day._

_I am sure I do not need to spell this out for you. Robert’s rebellion was built on a lie. You are not Ned Stark’s son, but nor are you borne of rape. You are borne of love—for Rhaegar loved your mother, and she loved him. Your name is not Stark or Snow, but Targaryen, and you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne._

_I do not profess to know what you will do with this information. I understand you are still trying to navigate the new life you have been given—and there are times you find yourself lost. I hope only that you will believe me. You are the person I trust most in this life, and I pray you trust me too._

_Keep this close to your chest, Jon. They say there is a Targaryen Queen across the Narrow Sea, with three dragons and armies more than that. She will see you as a threat, as will many others._

_Guard yourself. Protect yourself. I will return when I have exhausted the Citadel’s knowledge on the threat beyond the wall, so I am of some use to you when they come._

_Your friend,_

_Samwell Tarly._

Sansa stands frozen to the spot, her heart in her throat.

Jon is still standing, one hand on the desk as he leans over it. His jaw is set, his eyes stormy and black, and she lets herself look at him for a moment.

 _How can he be Rhaegar’s son?_ she thinks wildly, taking in his dark curls and thick beard and long face like the Starks.

They always said whoever Jon’s mother was, she had left little of herself in her son. But his mother was Lyanna Stark, and dragon’s blood flowed through his veins, as potent and sharp as wolfsblood. It doen't seem real.

She takes a step towards him, the parchment scrunching in her hand.

“Jon…”

“Is it?” he asks humourlessly, an incredulous catch to his throat.

Her gut twists. Now she is as lost as he is.

“Yes,” she insists, “you’re Jon. This changes nothing.”

He looks at her then and his eyes are dark and wild and pointedly _not_ piercing violet.

“It changes everything.”

 _Not for me,_ she thinks, and she tries to reach him again.

“We’re more than blood,” she stumbles over the words a bit, still trying to process the information, her mind spinning, “we’re more than who laid down with whom. Ned Stark raised you. He was there when you took your first steps, said your first words. He taught you how to ride and how to hold a sword and how to be brave and good. You still have his blood. _Rhaegar Targaryen_ didn’t make you. Ned Stark made you.”

He’s silent throughout her speech, his hand still gripping the edge of the oak desk.

When he speaks, his voice is deathly quiet.

“He didn’t make me this.”

Her eyes and throat burn, a sadness swirling in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes she allows herself to forget how very lost he is. She didn’t care to know him when they were children, not really, so it’s easy to adjust to a new normal. Ned Stark _did_ make him brave and honourable and good—but maybe he isn’t any of those things anymore. Maybe they died when he did.

She opens the scroll and reads it again, her eyes searching frantically over the ink as though the words might change. She can’t make sense of it.

She reads the line about her father, again and again, waiting for it to stick.

_He swore to his sister that he would protect you and he did—right until his dying day._

“He should have told my mother,” she whispers, more to herself, “she was so cruel to you. _I_ was so cruel to you…”

She feels sad and angry and a hundred other emotions she can’t even begin to sort through.

“Do you want me to absolve you?” Jon asks dispassionately, unimpressed.

She shakes her head.

“No, it’s done,” she says, “I’m not looking to open old wounds.”

He nods, his jaw sliding to the side. Something shines behind his eyes.

She reads him like a book.

“Our father loved you,” she says gently, refusing to call him anything else, “he must have lied to keep you safe.”

He doesn't reply again so she continues.

“Robert Baratheon would have killed you.”

He looks away, like he’s not satisfied with that answer. She exhales, long and heavy, and comes to stand next to him. She drops the parchment, letting it flutter to the desk. She stands with her back against the furniture, her eyes searching his face.

She looks for a reaction, for a chip in that impenetrable armour— _anything._

Their world has been turned upside down and he's cold and unfeeling, but he _must_ feel something about that.

“Really, you should be pleased,” he says eventually, his eyes flickering over her face. Perhaps he is looking for a reaction too.

“ _Pleased_?”

He arches a brow. “You don’t have to feel guilty about fucking your brother. We’re cousins now.”

She scoffs, her mouth twitching.

Her views on morality, on what was good and right, had been warped by her time with Joffrey and Ramsay. They had both been considered good and right matches, but what they had done to her was far from it. Jon was complicated, but he made her feel warm and safe and alive and what could be wrong about that?

“I never cared about that,” she says, because she didn’t.

His eyes flicker down to her mouth.

“That’s very wicked,” he teases.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she concedes, tipping her head to the side.

His mouth twitches under his beard, his hand coming up to her face. He cups it, his thumb stroking gently over her cheekbone. Her breath hitches, the air thinning as her lips slowly part. Her mouth feels dry, her chest too tight, and his thumb travels down to stroke over her bottom lip.

He’s just looking at her.

He doesn’t speak or smile or kiss her. He doesn’t do anything other than search her face. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for or if he finds it, but eventually she whispers:

“Are you alright?”

She registers the movement of his chest as he takes a breath.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

His lips twitch again but it’s a small, melancholy smile. “I suppose it _is_ a lot to process.”

She huffs an incredulous laugh. It’s an understatement, but the most she’ll get, and her eyes flicker down to the weathered scroll.

“What are we going to do?” she asks then, suddenly very serious, because this news is bigger than the both of them. It has the power to shake the Seven Kingdoms, and Jon’s never had a name that means anything, but she _has._ She can help him. She can guide him.

Men will try to use it for their own gain and one particular man springs to mind.

She runs her fingers over the surface of the parchment, feels the bumps of ink, and glances at him. 

“Lord Baelish can never know about this,” she says heavily.

He nods in agreement and picks up the scroll.

He walks over to the fire and doesn’t hesitate before he tosses it in.

The flames dance and flicker across the paper, releasing crackles and pops into the air, and Sansa watches a secret burn.   
  


* * *

  
Sansa lights the candle in Lyanna Stark’s outstretched hands and pulls back to stare at her face.

It’s difficult to get a sense of her, to see any sort of expression etched into the stone. She still struggles to adjust, to process this new information. Visiting the crypts hasn’t helped.

 _The girl that sparked a rebellion,_ they should call her, _the wolf that fell in love with a dragon and brought the Seven Kingdoms to its knees._

She narrows her eyes and thinks perhaps her aunt is not a victim after-all. 

She thinks of Elia and her children. Her daughter stabbed to death, her little boy killed in-front of her. She thinks of the terror she must have felt, the devastation, before she was raped and murdered herself. All this… her prize for loving Rhaegar. She didn’t do anything wrong, she was innocent, and it didn’t seem fair.

They say the wolfsblood had made Lyanna wild, fierce and uncontrollable, and Sansa wonders how far it had trickled down. Sometimes she felt very uncontrollable too, something intense and uncontainable inside her.

It frightens her—and she doesn't want to cause the same pain. 

She jumps slightly when she hears two male voices. She recognises them both quickly, distinctive as they are. Two burrs: Jon’s, rough and northern, and Littlefinger’s, melodic and unsettling.

She hides behind a corner, pressed into the stone.

“You have many enemies, my Lord Commander, but I am not one of them,” she hears Littlefinger drawling.

She can’t see him, but she can sense Jon’s anger in his thin voice.

“I am not a Lord,” he says lowly, “nor am I Lord Commander anymore. My watch has ended.”

“Ah yes, you gave all that up to return home,” Littlefinger purrs, “I was not aware that the Night’s Watch vows were so… transient.”

“Forgive me, Lord Baelish,” Jon is growling but he doesn’t sound particularly apologetic, “but I have neither the desire nor the patience for fancy words.”

“It means fleeting,” Baelish says, “I was under the impression that once a man, let alone a Lord Commander, took the black, those vows were for life.”

“Aye, _it shall not end until my death_ ,” Jon recites irritably, “but I did die—so it ended.”

She could practically _see_ Littlefinger’s practiced, tight smile.

“What a convenient little loophole.”

“I would hardly call being stabbed by my brothers _convenient,_ but aye, I suppose so.”

Sansa tries to stay quiet as the air thins, burning awkward and tense between the two men.

“Why have you followed me down here?” Jon asks then, his tone low and dangerous. It makes her shudder.

“Why have you _come_ down here?” Littlefinger counters smoothly, “are you lost? Looking to the ghost of your father for some inspiration? I hear your brother is doing better.”

 _He has come to the crypts for answers too_ , Sansa realises.

“I do not wish to discuss that with you,” Jon says, “I do not wish to discuss _anything_ with you.”

“Not even the battle with Ramsay?” Littlefinger asks and Sansa’s blood turns cold, “after-all, you surely would have perished without the support of the Vale.”

Sansa holds her breath, stunned by his audacity. She fights back a wince, knowing Jon’s temper is about to boil over.

“You want me to thank you?”

“It’s what I deserve,” Baelish insists and Sansa frowns wryly; she can think of a great many things he deserves.

“The Vale came for Sansa,” Jon says roughly, “they fought and bled for _her._ Not me and certainly not you.”

“Ah yes, _Sansa_ ,” he purrs her name and it makes her stomach roil, “on her, we can agree. Bright, intelligent, wild... I wish to keep her safe too. She is the future of House Stark. I know you’re capable enough—”

“—you have no idea,” Jon’s voice is low, dangerous, ominous.

“I don’t know you well, that’s true, but I knew him,” Sansa wonders who he’s talking about before she realises they must have settled in-front of Ned Stark’s statue, “and how he must have raised you. Would he approve, I wonder, of your bond with his daughter?”

Sansa’s blood turns ice cold, her limbs stiffening. Littlefinger’s voice is thick with implication but _surely_ he can’t know and Jon’s growling a reply before she can overthink it.

“You try my patience.”

“Do I now?” he croons, “I shan’t apologise for looking after Sansa’s best interests. Will you be this cold to her husband? You know that one day, she will have to marry again. Between you and I, I hope that husband will be me.”

Sansa can’t even process her shock and disgust at the notion because the words make Jon snap.

She hears a rough growl, more wolf than man, and then the sickening crunch of skull on stone. She leans her head so she can peer around the corner and sees Littlefinger pinned against the crypt wall, Jon’s hand around his throat.

“Touch my sister…” he starts in a low, dangerous snarl, “…and you’ll find out _exactly_ what I’m capable of.”

A shudder traces down her spine, one that has nothing to do with the cold, winter air whistling through the crypts. She watches Baelish splutter pathetically and gasp for air. Jon’s top lip is curled as he keeps him against the wall, his thumb pressing into his pulse point. He waits for one, two, three more seconds before he lets him go with a shove.

Baelish inhales deep, greedy gulps of air, the skin of his neck angry and red-raw. There will be purple, Jon-shaped fingerprints there come the morning. 

“Now fuck off,” Jon orders coolly, sending the other man scarpering with a bruised ego and his tail between his legs.

Sansa counts a full minute before she makes her presence known.

He’s standing in-front of her father again, wearing a stone expression just like the statue.

He doesn’t turn around but he must sense her, feel her, because he sighs—

“How much did you hear?”

Sansa walks until she’s standing next to him.

“All of it.”

He turns his face and his eyes are black.

Her breath hitches in her throat, stunned by the intensity, and his glare sends heat sparking between her thighs.

“You will never marry him,” he states, _demands,_ his expression stormy and uncompromising.

Her chest is too tight and her throat is burning and she shakes her head slowly.

“Never.”

He takes a step towards her until they’re toe to toe and she can feel him, all heat and smoke and masculine energy. She’s choking under it, under the flames, and maybe he is a dragon after-all. She wonders how she never saw it before.

“You will never marry anyone.”

It’s as though she’s under a spell as she shakes her head again and quietly whispers, “no.”

“You will stay with me.”

Her skin prickles, her chest aches, and she notices he doesn’t say _here_ with me.

She wonders if he plans on going south, if he plans on reclaiming his newfound birthright, and if he’ll take her with him. She can’t imagine so. She can’t imagine him caring about some far-away throne down in Kings Landing. He didn’t even care about Winterfell until she made him fight.

He doesn’t seem to care about anything—but he certainly cared when Littlefinger spoke his intentions.

“Yes,” she whispers, "always."

His jaw is clenched and his eyes are a little wild—and then he kisses her.

She gasps in surprise and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue into her mouth. It’s rough and hot silk as it slides over hers, a dance they’ve long perfected. The kiss turns messy and frantic as their teeth clash and she tugs at his furs in a desperate attempt to get closer. His own hands claw at her waist, the fabric of her dress whining under the onslaught.

She’s suddenly very aware that she’s under her father’s watchful gaze, his stern stone face glaring down as she kisses the man she’s always known as a brother.

She breaks away, mouth swollen and panting.

“Why did you come down here?” she asks breathlessly, even though she couldn’t answer the same question if it was thrown at her, “ghosts can’t talk. If they could, father would tell you nothing has changed. You’re not a Targaryen.”

“Am I not?” he asks calmly, tugging her closer with an arm around her waist as he speaks into her hair, “have I not enjoyed making my sister come under my hands, my mouth, my cock… as the Targaryens had for centuries?”

She buries her nose in the hollow of his throat, breathing him in.

“I’ve enjoyed it too,” she husks, “so what does that make me?”

A low hum rumbles from his chest.

“Something else entirely.”

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her again.

He walks her backwards, away from Lyanna Stark and towards the back of the crypts. At the back of her mind, Sansa registers that he never went to her. He stayed at Ned’s statue, tried to look for answers there, but he avoided Lyanna. Perhaps he had resigned himself to never knowing who his mother was, a bastard who could imagine a wealth of possibilities. A tavern wench, a noblewoman, a handmaiden—whatever made it easier to sleep at night.

Now not only does he know her name, but he knows her story and her flaws and her face. Perhaps it’s too much.

Either way, he’s preoccupied now as he breaks away from Sansa’s mouth and plants kisses down the length of her neck. His fingers are tugging at her corset and his intentions suddenly become very clear. Sansa is starkly aware that Littlefinger only just left and could very well be lingering.

“Jon,” she gasps as he sucks a bloom into her neck, “we can’t—someone might see.”

“Let them,” he grunts.

He doesn’t mean that, _can’t_ mean that, but he’s not stopping and she doesn’t want to either—so she drags them to a corner of the crypt blanketed in darkness.

She can’t see him but she can feel him. In the darkness with her senses heightened, it feels like there are four hands on her, rather than two. She hears the rustling of clothes as he must unlace his breeches and then he’s hoisting her up against the wall. She wraps her long legs around him, aiding him in pushing her skirts up until they pool at her waist.

He doesn’t waste any more time. She can feel the anger pulsing from him in waves as he roughly pushes aside her smallclothes and thrusts inside her.

He takes her in steady thrusts against the wall, their breaths mingling in the small gap between them. He slaps a hand over her mouth when she moans, tells her to be quiet, and pushes in again to the hilt. Her wet cunt clenches around his throbbing length as she stares at him, eyes wide and blown with lust. It's frantic and animalistic and the stone is hard against her back. She feels wild. 

His thick cock stretches her out, a pleasant burn it always takes her a few moments to get used to, and his fingertips sink into her waist.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts, his other hand becoming damp with the condensation of her breaths. He works up a steady rhythm and he feels so good and so tight and so big inside her. Her eyes roll, her breath falling in sharp pants against his palm, and he starts to fuck her harder.

Somehow it feels more illicit, here in the darkness with the ghosts of her family staring down. For the first time, she’s glad her mother and Robb aren’t here, that they couldn’t bring them home.

She doesn’t want their condemnation too—not that it would make her stop. 

She is hot and whimpering and shivering as he continues claiming her body. He’s a man on a mission, something to prove, and every brutal thrust betrays the emotions he pretends he doesn’t have. She revels in it, her body starts to shake, and when he licks his thumb and puts it to her hard, throbbing nub, she’s pushed over the edge. He rubs her clit in tight circles as she peaks, her eyelids fluttering and her tight channel milking his pounding cock.

Her orgasm ripples along his length and she feels it swell and throb; she knows he’s close. He growls and bites down on her shoulder when he comes. He pulls out just in time for his seed to spill on the floor, leaving thick pools of white that make her blush.

She holds him as he shudders in the afterglow.

Over his shoulder, she catches sight of Lyanna Stark, and she shudders too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gone midnight where I am and I'm exhausted but I wrote all of this this evening and I really wanted to post it! Please excuse any mistakes, I will edit later. I realise some of the R+L=J revelation needed to come from Bran, but let's just pretend the Septon's diary was very indepth, ok?!


	18. Chapter 18

Jon’s head is between her legs when they hear a call outside—

_“Open the gates!”_

A gasp catches in her throat. His curls are a shock of black against her creamy thighs and she watches him slowly lift his eyes, his brow arching curiously. He rests his chin on her hipbone, his lips and beard wet with her.

Her thighs are trembling, her body pulled tight and on the edge of release.

His dark eyes regard her, his mouth glistening in the half-light. She knows if she were to kiss him, she would taste herself, tart and sweet on his tongue.

His chin stays perched casually on her hipbone.

His gaze darts to the door as the horn sounds again, before he drags it back to her.

“Do you want to finish?”

Her exhale is more like a sob.

His movements are leisurely, indifferent, as she undulates her hips towards his face.

“Your choice,” he quips nonchalantly.

Outside, some guards are shouting and even from this distance, she can hear the rusty creak of the gates opening. Whatever it is, it sounds important and she’s the defacto Lady of Winterfell and he’s—well, she’s not quite sure _what_ he is—but they should be down there. 

But in the moment, nothing is more important than the heat curling in the pit of her stomach, the desperation coursing through her blood.

“Make me come,” she demands.

He smirks, like he knew she would give in.

“It sounds important,” he echoes her thoughts, his tone teasing, “we really should be there.”

“Make me come quickly, then.”

He hums, gives an easy tip of his mouth, and then buries that mouth between her thighs again. 

A moan rips from her throat as she tips her head back. Normally, he takes his time. Even today, he had spent nigh on half an hour bringing her to the edge and dragging her back again. She was sure his jaw much be aching, but he wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t relent.

Now, he seems to take it as a challenge—how quickly he can make her come. He presses his hand against her inner thigh, gently spreading her wider, and focuses all his attention on her clit. Two fingers slide into her leaking hole at the same time, curling them inside her and rubbing that spongy spot that makes her legs go weak.

“Gods,” she chokes out a cry, grabbing at his hair.

He growls thickly into her cunt, opening his mouth wider, tonguing her messily. Her fingers twine into his curls, the other hand covering her breast. She can feel her heart fluttering against her palm, pounding in her throat. He groans again, a heated, rumbling sound, as he flicks her clit quickly with his tongue.

She rolls her hips against him, smearing herself across his lips, soaking his beard. She rides his face shamelessly, chasing her pleasure, so close to the edge. Delirious with pleasure, she bucks wildly and he splays a hand over lower stomach to keep her still.

The fingers of his other hand are still inside her, the sounds as he fucks her with them wet and lewd and loud. The pleasure builds and she’s about to snap when he latches his mouth over her clit and sucks hard. She breaks with a wail, muffled by her hand, and her thighs tremble around his head as she comes.

Releasing her clit, he laps at her slit again, slipping his fingers from her and swallowing the gush of wetness that leaks from her cunt.

A pounding on the door shatters her delirious, post-orgasm haze.

“Lady Sansa!” Brienne’s voice is shouting, “you must come at once.”

The words make Jon laugh, a husky sound that he buries in the soft skin of her thigh. The grit of his beard slides over her as he wipes his mouth. It doesn’t particularly work because when he crawls up her body and gives her a kiss, she can still taste her cunt.

She kisses him back, quick and brief, before sliding out of bed.

“I’ll be there in a moment, Brienne!” she calls, clearing her throat, and her body is still buzzing and on fire.

She dresses quickly, practically yanking her clothes on, and when she gets to the door, she notices he’s not following her.

“What are you doing?” 

He pulls his shirt over his head, grabbing his jerkin.

He palms himself, bringing attention to the swelling bulge in his breeches.

“I need a minute,” he says gruffly.

Sansa rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. Nothing gets her hotter than seeing how hard he gets when he eats her out.

“If you hurry,” she starts, her hand on the latch, “I promise later, I’ll return the favour.”

He adjusts himself again, wincing a little.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says dryly—and then she rushes out the door.  
  


* * *

  
“Slow down, Brienne!” Sansa half grumbles, half laughs as she tries to keep up with the taller woman’s strides.

Brienne doesn’t laugh, her hand clasped over the sword at her hip.

“What is it?” she asks, more serious then.

Brienne doesn’t reply, she doesn’t need to, because then they’re turning the corner and Sansa sees Bran.

Her chest constricts, her throat dries, and he’s _there._

Her brother.

She can’t breathe as she stares at him, trying to count the years.

He’s staring at her too, his face blank and impassive. She doesn’t realise she’s crying until she feels the wind whistle through her cheeks, cold even though her skin is on fire. She blinks into life and rushes towards him.

He’s in some sort of makeshift chair and she kneels in-front of him. She’s shivering and warm at the same time, delirious and happy, and she can’t make sense of it. She doesn’t care that the snow is wet and cold under her knees, soaking the fabric.

She doesn’t care about anything other than holding him.

She throws her arms around his neck and holds on tight.

Briefly, she’s aware of Jon behind her.

She’s still embracing him and her eyes are closed and she can’t let go.

“I’m okay, Sansa,” Bran’s voice murmurs in her ear. He sounds like a man now.

She rears back, her hands still cradling his face.

She feels Jon's hand on her shoulder then. He gently squeezes it and she swallows past the lump in her throat.

“It is good to see you, Bran,” he says in that low, northern brogue and Sansa suddenly thinks of Rickon.

Hope swells like a light inside her. If anyone could bring him back, it was Bran. She wants to fetch him, to bring him here as they hold each other.

There’s a tiny, painful hole where Robb should be, an empty ache for Arya, but other than that... they're _together_.

She thinks of Sam’s note then, of the revelation that had shaken them, and she wonders how Bran will take it.  
  


* * *

  
Bran doesn’t _take_ it at all.

He barely reacts.

“Did you hear what we said?” Sansa asks as they sit in Jon’s solar, the flames from the fireplace warming the room.

Bran is staring at Rickon, his brows slightly furrowed as the little boy rolls around the floor with Ghost.

“I heard you,” he says simply.

Jon is standing by the fireplace, one hand curled into the stone above it. He doesn’t look at their brother as he speaks.

“You do not seem surprised.”

Bran blinks, stoic and vacant. It’s not quite the same as Jon’s reticence, not quite as cold or preternatural, but it’s still unsettling.

“Bran?” Sansa tries, leaning forward in her chair to try and catch his eye.

“I’m not really,” he whispers then, his eyes black in the half-darkness, “not anymore. I remember what it was to be called Brandon Stark—but I don’t remember how it felt. I’m someone different now, _something_ different.”

The words slice deep into her skin, as deep as any of Ramsay’s cuts. _I can’t have lost him too_ , she thinks wildly, _not another brother gone_. With Rickon so broken and Jon so lost, she doesn’t think she could bear it.

“What do you mean?”

“I see things now,” he clarifies, his tone even like he was talking about something as innocuous as the weather, “I can _do_ things now. I can send my consciousness into the mind of an animal, can control its body and see through its eyes, as if it were my own. I have dreams. Sometimes prophetic, sometimes of the future, but mainly of the past. I saw it all. I saw you on your wedding day. I saw Jon stabbed to death by his brothers. And I saw Rhaegar Targaryen marry our aunt before a Heart Tree. So no. I am not surprised by your revelation.”

Sansa catches Jon’s eyes and sees her expression mirrored there.

“Lyanna loved you,” Bran says quietly, “she begged our father to look after you. She made him promise. He took the secret to his grave.”

Sansa shakes her head, trying to make sense of it all.

“Bran, I don’t understand.”

“Maybe you don’t need to,” he says, “I’ve long since stopped trying. But one thing is clear. You’re not a bastard, Jon. You never were. You’re the last surviving male of House Targaryen. You’re the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Sansa stares at her brother— _cousin_ —her heart in her throat. She wonders at the strange turn of the events. Her whole life, she had dreamt of being Queen. She had lost herself in fantasies of golden princes and brave knights, and then she journeyed South and discovered that dream was a nightmare, after-all.

Joffrey was no brave knight. He was cowardly and weak. She had sneered at her bastard half-brother, had disregarded him and thought him unimportant—and all the while, royal blood flowed through his veins.

He was _here_ the entire time; not the prince she dreamed of, but a prince all the same. More than that, he was deserving of it. He was brave and strong, a true warrior. He would break bread with his people, fight with his people, _bleed_ with his people.

He was a _King_.

A shudder traces down her spine.

Since she had been brought back to him, she had thought him powerful. Now it was something more—an extra layer to her feelings because she was _allowed_ to feel them. He was only her cousin, after-all.

She wonders what he will do now.

“No-one can know,” Jon murmurs, turning his attention to Bran. The flames from the fire cast hollowy shadows across his face. “Do you understand, Bran?”

Bran nods smoothly.

“It’s your decision,” he says.

Sansa knows he’s talking about the revelation in itself, who to tell and when to tell them, but the true decision feels more momentous than that.  
  


* * *

  
“What else have you seen?” Sansa asks once evening, enthralled by the mystery.

Bran hums, seemingly considering it.

“Your _friend,_ Lord Baelish,” he says the word like he’s very aware he’s the opposite, “he conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father. He held a knife to his throat and said _I did warn you not to trust me._ He was later imprisoned on false charges of treason and… well, you know what happened next.”

Sansa’s blood turns cold, fury bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

“He told our mother the knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister,” he continues.

“But it was another one of his lies.” Sansa finishes for him, her top lip curling with anger. 

From where he sits at his desk, Rickon on his lap, Jon arches a brow.

“Sansa, the Vale fought for you,” he repeats what he’d said in the crypts, “they’ll stay for you. We need to get rid of him.”

Sansa nods in agreement.

Her relationship with Lord Baelish is complicated to say the least. In some ways, he had helped her. In many ways, in-fact. He had saved her from danger many times and the lessons he had taught her would stay with her forever. But in other ways, in all the ways that mattered, he had been the architect of her pain.

She doesn’t care about him anymore. She doesn’t need him anymore. He needs to die. Perhaps she will let Jon have the honour this time. She thinks she would like to watch.

“I saw Rickon too,” Bran was saying, his voice softer as he glanced over at their brother, “I saw what Ramsay did to him—what he did to both of you.”

Sansa swallows past the lump in her throat, a stinging sensation behind her temples.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he adds, “and I’m sorry it had to happen here, in our home.”

She nods, folding her hands in her lap.

Over at the desk, Rickon shifts in Jon’s lap and points to Winterfell on the map in-front of him.

“Home,” he grunts.

Jon stills, leaning back and glancing over at him. Sansa blinks and releases the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. Jon’s eyes flicker to hers and they share a heavy look before he drags his gaze back to Rickon.

The little boy twists in his lap to look at him.

Jon's gaze flickers over his face.

He tucks an auburn curl behind Rickon's ear and nods.

“Aye, clever boy,” he husks, “that’s home.”

Sansa smiles, a warmth spreading throughout her chest. The progress was small and slow, but it was progress nonetheless.

“Maybe you can help each other,” she tries, turning her attention to Bran, “you were always so close.”

“Maybe,” Bran says, his dark eyes focused on his little brother, “I suppose we’ve both had quite the journey.”

Sansa’s smile turns sad and melancholy.

“I would like to hear about it one day,” she whispers and then heavily adds, “I’m so glad you’re home, brother.”

Bran nods but there’s little behind his eyes—like a candle has been left burning in the window, but there’s no-one home.

Sansa makes a silent promise to herself. She’ll fix him too, she thinks, and learn everything that’s happened to him since he fell from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but I wanted to get something out! Also there was still some smut and a reunion so hope that made up for it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit nervous about this one because the dirty talk/"incest kink" gets RAMPED up... hope it's alright😬

The weather shifts and changes, the bite of winter arriving, and Arya comes home.

There’s no lofty announcement or grand opening of the gates. It’s not her little sister’s style. Instead, the girl slips past the useless guards and Jon and Sansa find her in the crypts.

Sansa can’t breathe when she sees her, casually staring up at Ned Stark’s statue. Her chest feels too tight, it’s like a flare of sunlight bursting through her ribs, and she runs to her. She practically throws herself at her and Arya grunts in surprise but her embrace is just as fierce.

She doesn’t realise she’s weeping until Arya rolls her eyes and says—

“Gods, don’t _cry_ , Sansa.”

Sansa pushes her off, holding her at arms’ length. She looks older now, a new scar on her face and her hair tied back in a style that’s more like father’s and Jon’s than hers. She laughs through her tears but she _will_ cry because she’s her sister and she loves her.

“Where have you been?” she asks quickly, “are you okay? Are you hurt? No, don’t answer. I just want to look at you.”

Arya smirks, sarcastically dipping into a bow and holding her hands out as if to say _take a good look._

Cold wind whistles through the crypts. The girls shudder, Jon doesn’t. It’s so cold, Sansa feels it in her bones, but he seems unaffected. Arya turns her attention to him.

“I’ve missed you, brother,” her voice softens for she’d always loved him best, and she embraces him tightly, “I’ve missed you _both,_ ” she adds pointedly before Sansa can sulk.

Sansa tries to read Jon’s reaction as he holds the sister he loved the most, but she can’t. He is still impervious to her, still made of ice, and it frustrates her to no end. He puts her down and looks at Arya too, his hand clasped on her shoulder.

“Bran and Rickon are here,” he tells her, his voice low and deep.

Her Stark grey eyes— _his eyes—_ widen, joy flashing through them. She smiles widely and hugs him again.

Sansa smiles too, turning her eyes back to her father’s statue. It falters slightly when she remembers what happened the last time she was down here, how Jon had taken her in rough thrusts right before their dead family’s eyes.

Her eyes slide to Arya again and she realises how much she needs to tell her.

She’d called him _brother.  
  
_

* * *

  
Rickon recognises Arya immediately.

Davos’ drawings must have worked, at least subconsciously, because he shuffles towards her and babbles—

_“Ah-ya.”_

Arya’s eyes widen, her gaze darting to Sansa and Jon.

“That’s good,” Jon says, his arms crossed over his chest, “believe it or not.”

They had tried to prepare her, tried to explain that their little brother’s mind had been fractured and bent under Ramsay’s torture. Sansa’s had too, her world had been turned upside down, but she had been more successful in adjusting. Though she knew there were parts of her she would never get back, replaced by a fierce, dark desire for her brother— _cousin_.

She hadn’t told her sister that part.

Bran was there too, taking it all in, his hands folded in his lap and his face eerily still and calm.

Rickon holds Arya’s hand and it’s all going well, they’re all safe and home and _together,_ but then the little boy turns his attention to Jon and says—

“Papa.”

Sansa’s eyes widen, her surprise mirrored in Arya’s expression.

Jon’s brow arches, his gaze sliding between them all, and Bran still looks unnervingly unaffected.

Sansa thinks she can make something up, to come up with a reason he would call him that, but then Rickon wobbles over to her on unsteady feet and grins—

“Mama.”

Arya’s thick brows pull into a frown.

“Why is he calling you both that?”

Sansa looks helplessly to Jon, who merely picks a clueless Rickon up and lets him play with his curls.

“He’s confused,” Sansa tries, plastering a tight smile on her face, “he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Arya still looks suspicious, her expression dark and heavy.

“Well, why haven’t you corrected him?”

“We _will_ ,” she promises, though she isn’t sure, “eventually… but he’s been through so much and he’s getting better. If it helps him to call us that, what’s the harm? We’re the only family he has. A _pack_ , remember?”

Arya listens but her chest rises and falls with a heavy exhale. She runs a tired hand over her face. She doesn’t look particularly convinced but she’s been through a lot and so has Rickon.

“I’ve been showing him pictures,” Sansa elaborates softly, “telling him stories. He will know mother and father’s faces. He’ll know Robb’s. I promise.”

Arya nods, forcing a smile onto her face. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ve had a long day,” she whispers eventually, “I need to sleep.”

Sansa nods, moving forward to take her hands. She gives them a squeeze and hopes her eyes convey everything she can’t explain. She gives her brothers a little nod and then leaves.

Silence falls over them, thick and heavy.

Eventually, Bran breaks it.

“You won’t be able to hide it from her forever,” he says, his tone low and empty—the _same._

Sansa sighs, not wanting to hear it right now.

“She’s just found her way home,” she says, “we should let her enjoy that before we tell her the brother she’s always loved isn’t really her brother.”

Bran stares at her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sansa stills, her eyes sliding to Jon. He looks stiff too, his expression a blank mask but his limbs pulled taut. Rickon is still in his arms, fussing, and Jon loosens his grip, letting the boy slide down his body. He lands, his bare feet padding softly on the stone floor as he runs along to play.

Jon turns his steely eyes to him, his expression commanding and impatient.

“Speak plainly, Bran.”

He does.

“Your relationship is no longer that of a brother and sister.”

Sansa bristles, a hot ball of dread in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she tries, but her voice is tight, her teeth gritted.

Jon looks, as always, annoyingly unruffled.

“I told you, sister… I see everything now,” Bran murmurs, “just as I saw your wedding with Ramsay, I saw his death too. I saw what you did with Jon after, what you’ve been doing with each other ever since.”

Sansa’s throat feels thick, something bubbling in her chest. She opens her mouth to speak but falters helplessly. She has no excuse for it. She isn’t even sorry.

“I do not judge,” Bran is speaking again, his voice an empty chasm, an echo chamber, “it is not my place to do so. I am merely suggesting you may wish to exercise restraint. Our sister will be not be as understanding as I am, nor will some of the others around you.”

Sansa thinks of Arya, of Baelish, of the northern lords, so noble and principled, and the ghosts of her parents.

She should be embarrassed that Bran knows, that he can _see_ what Jon does to her.

She should be ashamed.

She looks to Jon. He doesn’t look ashamed at all.  
  


* * *

  
Bran’s words haunt her that night, as she tosses in bed.

She’s still awake, staring at the stone wall, when she hears her chamber door open. She knows it’s Jon without looking, but she turns around to greet him anyway.

He’s leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You didn’t come to me tonight,” he says evenly.

She blinks at him.

“Bran _knows_.”

He blinks right back.

“So?”

She scoffs, sitting up and scooting to the end of the bed. She folds her hands in her lap.

“It’s wrong,” she whispers, but the words ring hollow; she doesn’t believe them, “what we’re doing.”

She always said that what _Joffrey_ and _Ramsay_ had done to her was wrong. In comparison, no matter the darkness that had clung to him when he was brought back to life, Jon made her feel safe and warm and what could be wrong about that?

She feels confused. She feels untethered.

Jon knows it.

“It doesn’t change how you feel about me,” he says calmly, “Bran knowing what we do at night… the fact that I am not your brother. Perhaps you are even disappointed.”

She pauses at that.

“Disappointed?”

His hand reaches behind him to lock the door. The click as the latch falls down penetrates the heady silence. He moves towards her, his movements stealthy and almost feline, until he’s leaning over her. He plants his hands on the furs either side of her body, his mouth hovering over hers.

She swallows, her pale eyes flickering up to his.

“I think you liked fucking your bastard brother,” he husks, his warm breath washing over her, “I think it _excited_ you.”

Her eyes drop to his mouth—his pretty, sinful mouth.

“It did,” she admits, “it _does_.”

“Aye, it does,” he murmurs against her lips, their mouths brushing hotly but not quite connecting, “maybe the idea of your _cousin’s_ cock just doesn’t have the same _bite_.”

He croons the word before finally pressing his mouth to hers in a firm kiss. She opens her mouth and his tongue slides inside, hot and slick. When it retreats, she groans and seeks it out. He tuts and leans back, smirking as she chases his mouth.

His fingers bend on the furs. Her hands dance up his strong chest, playing with the laces of his simple nightshirt. She tugs him closer, her mouth grazing his jaw. His beard feels gritty and rough against her lips.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he asks, one hand lifting from the furs to toy with the hem of her nightshift, “spreading your legs and letting your bastard brother fuck your tight cunt—this hot, _soaking_ wet cunt…”

She moans, the words sparking heat between her thighs. She can feel her pulse pounding between her legs.

“Tell me,” he orders gruffly, “tell me you liked it.”

“I _loved_ it,” she whispers as he shoves her shift up until it pools around her waist and finds her bare underneath. The noise he makes is half a laugh, half a growl as he slides two fingers inside her, “I loved spreading my legs for my bastard brother.”

He kisses her again and she feels the curve of his smirk against her mouth.

“Gods, the things I want to do to you...” he husks, his low tone hinting at dark intent.

“ _Do them_ then,” she pushes, her eyelids fluttering and her lips parting as he crooks his fingers inside her in a come-hither motion, “show me.”

The smile he gives her is positively wolfish as he slips his fingers out of her and licks them clean.

“Lay back on the bed,” he husks.

The order sparks straight between her legs, her body bursting into flames. She shuffles back, leaning on her forearms as he sinks down onto the furs. He grabs her ankle and tugs her to him, his top lip curled into a snarl. She lets out a little squeal of surprise, her hands coming up to cover her mouth.

“Quiet now,” he says, amused, lifting her leg to mouth at the inside of her ankle, “we wouldn’t want them to hear what you let your brother do to you, would we?"

The word makes her feel hot and flushed again. _This is twisted,_ she thinks, to get off on a familial bond they no longer even have.

He puts her leg down and her thighs splay open, as though under a spell. He then reaches down where he still hasn’t taken his boots off and pulls out a small blade.

Her eyes widen, her pupils fat and blown to black, as he turns it over in his hands.

He drags the flat end of the blade across her chest. The steel is cool against her flushed, burning skin. Then he uses it to cut through her shift, the material ripping savagely under his hands. He pushes the scraps away, and her smallclothes too, and then the knife is gone and she’s bare.

He lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. He’s strong and scarred and well-muscled and she goes to reach for him but he gently bats her hand away. She pouts and puts it to her breast instead, cupping a mound in her palm.

“Are you wet for my cock?”

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Yes.”

“Show me,” he demands, his eyes flickering down to the apex of her thighs, “spread your legs and show me that pretty cunt.”

The filth that pours out of his mouth tonight makes her feel wild, uninhibited. She obeys slavishly, slowly spreading her thighs.

“Wider,” he grunts.

She opens them until her muscles whine against the strain, the outsides of her thighs practically touching the furs. She tugs a dusky rose nipple between her fingers as her eyes flicker down to see what he sees. She’s so wet, her thighs shimmer with silver slick in the candlelight.

She’s completely exposed now, spread wide and bare and empty for him to fill, to use. His eyes are black. They don’t leave her cunt as he kicks his boots off and toys with the laces of his breeches.

“You want to be fucked?” he asks, the laces slipping through his fingers casually.

She nods, her bottom lip still caught between her teeth.

“Yes,” she practically hisses, infuriated, “you know I do, you bastard.”

She says it under her breath, annoyed with him for making her wait, making her beg, and she didn’t mean it that way— _or maybe she did_ —but his eyes flash dangerously.

“Bastard, is it?” he asks lowly.

She doesn’t take it back, fire flashing through her eyes. She wants to push him, wants a reaction; she wants it _all._

He pushes his breeches down his hips, then he’s naked too.

His cock is thick and hard, jutting proudly from a thatch of black hair.

“I was going to let you fuck my mouth,” he says casually, one hand rising to lazily stroke his member, “lick your pretty, highborn cunt until you cum screaming. But a _bastard_ wouldn’t do that, would he? Hmm? A bastard wouldn’t care about the lady’s pleasure. A bastard takes what he wants.”

He palms her thigh, fingers slippery slick against her wetness, holding her open for him.

“And what do you want?” she asks, her mind foggy with desire, slipping into madness.

His mouth twitches, like he couldn’t even _begin_ to explain.

“I want to slide my cock inside this tight cunt,” he rasps, tapping her clit with the head of his cock and making her back arch, “I want to fuck you like a bastard would. I want to take you hard and fast until everyone in this fucking castle knows you’re _mine._ You’re _mine.”_

“ _Yes,_ ” she hisses, rolling her hips, the noise bleeding into a moan as he spreads her legs and pushes inside her. She’s so wet, there’s no resistance, and he sets a fast and brutal pace.

“Is this what you wanted?” he bites out, strong muscles rippling under pale skin, “is this how a bastard fucks? How long have you wanted that, hmm? How long have you wanted to be _fucked_ by your bastard half-brother?”

She cries out in response, clenching tight around his throbbing length.

“When you came to me covered in Ramsay’s blood? Since you watched me kill Theon? Before then?”

She can’t respond, her throat on fire, pleasure strangling her. Her toes curl, her long legs wrapping around his hips as he pounds into her harder. The wet, lewd sounds of their fucking fill the chamber.

He extends a hand, wrapping his fingers around her throat. Her mouth falls open, her pupils blown to black, as he gently squeezes. She moans, her head tipping back, wanting harder, faster, _more._

He releases his grip and trails his fingers to her mouth.

“Suck,” he demands, pushing her lips apart.

Her next moan is muffled as she obeys, sliding her tongue between his fingers.

“Aye, good girl—such a good girl,” he says heavily, his hips still rolling, “you look so good like that, sucking on my fingers like you suck my cock.”

She nods, wanting to be good and bad for him, all at once. He pulls his fingers from her mouth and snakes his hand between her thighs, using his wet fingers to rub her hard nub.

He leans down, resting on his forearm as he begins to pound into her harder.

“Fuck, Sansa—” he chokes out, “— _fuck,_ you’re so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me.”

“Yes,” she moans, “for you. All for you.”

“Yeah? All for your _bastard brother_?” he teases on a growl, his balls slapping lewdly against her, “gods, you feel good. Just like the first time, you remember that? You remember coming to me after Ramsay? How fucking needy you were. I _wonder_ —would you be that wet with someone else’s blood on your hands?”

She tries to focus on his words, feeling them penetrate through the fog.

“What are you talking about?” she gasps out as he hits the perfect spot, his thumb still sliding over her hard nub.

“Baelish,” he grunts, “I’m going to kill him—for _you_.”

Sansa’s eyes widen, a mixture of the shocking words and the feeling of his hard cock rubbing inside her.

“Yes, _please_ ,” she whimpers, “I want him gone. I want you to do it.”

The image of it, of Baelish’s blood, thick and red and dripping from their hands like Ramsay’s, pushes her to the edge. Her wet channel clenches around his cock and he groans.

“That’s it,” he says thickly, rubbing her clit harder, “yes, _fuck_ , just like that. Let them hear you. Let _Baelish_ hear you. Let him hear how you let your bastard brother fuck you, how only he gets to fuck this sweet— _fuck—_ this sweet, wet cunt. I want to feel you cum, Sansa. Cum for me.”

She cries out, the words tipping her over the edge. Her eyes roll back, her toes curling and her mouth opens in a silent scream. He buries his face in her shoulder, her cunt gripping him like a vice, her body trembling as wave after wave crashes over her.

He fucks her through it, rutting wildly.

“Fuck, I want to spill inside you,” he pants, his hips snapping into hers with brutal force, “ _gods,_ Sansa—I want to cum inside this tight, wet cunt—this beautiful, _highborn_ cunt—just let me, _fuck_ , let me cum inside you…”

She can’t, that’s _madness,_ and yet—

“Cum inside me,” she begs, “I want to feel it. I want you to fill me up.”

“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt and keeps himself there. He shudders as his hot cum spurts inside her, coating her womb. She shivers, moans, when he pulls his softening member out of her.

Some of his seed, thick and milky white, slips onto her inner thighs.

She shudders in the afterglow and thinks of Arya again, thinks of how ashamed she should be. She’s not.

She couldn’t stop, even if she tried.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than usual but I wanted to get something out. I had a whole plot lined up, I promise... it was all to do with Baelish and it was going to be a slice of *chefs kiss* comeuppance and it descended into well... depravity. So we're jumping right into smut and I ain't sorry🤷🏼♀️🤭

As the sun begins to rise, they each bathe, and then just end up in bed again.

Light streams in through the high arched window, painting Jon's chest in soft hues of orange and yellow. Sansa runs a finger down his sternum, traces the raised skin of the crescent scar over his heart, finally lays her palm on his abdomen.

Her head is on his chest, her damp hair spilling like fire over his pale skin.

“One day,” he husks, his voice thick with sleep as he lazily cups her behind, “I’d like to fuck this pretty arse.”

Even after everything they’ve done, the carnal relations and the blood on their hands, the words make Sansa blush.

She buries her face in his chest, hiding her flaming cheeks and shaking her head.

“Only a filthy bastard would want to do that.”

She can’t see his face but she can imagine his mouth curving into a smirk.

“You think so?” he hums and she feels the rumble of his chest underneath her, “some women love it.”

She thinks of excruciating pain. She thinks of a pillow underneath her muffling her sobs. She empties her mind and tries to think of nothing.

“I highly doubt that,” she says wryly, then adds, “and how do you know? Did Ygritte?”

She’s toying with him, perhaps trying to hurt him, but he merely hums again.

“We didn’t try things like that, I was too inexperienced. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She was wild.”

 _How does he know then?_ she thinks, because—

“Wasn’t she the only woman you’d been with?”

He shifts slightly then, making it so she lifts her head off his chest and he can arch a teasing brow at her.

“Oh Sansa,” he drawls, “don’t be naïve.”

She frowns, narrowing her eyes and searching his face. She’s unsurprised to find it mostly unreadable. She rolls off him to lay on her side, propping her head up on a hand.

“But you scolded that man of the night’s watch…” she struggles to remember the name and isn’t that alarming, when she’d ordered the boy's death? “before you knew he'd killed that girl, you said _you laid with a whore_ and called him an oathbreaker _._ ”

Jon just gives a simple, uncaring shrug.

“You hypocrite,” she laughs on an exhale, no malice in her voice, just disbelief, “whores, then?”

He shrugs again, shifting until he’s leaning on his forearms, propped by his elbows. He angles his face down to look at her.

“Really, _I_ was the one doing a service,” his mouth tips into an easy smirk, “those poor women are so neglected. Most of the time, I didn’t even have to pay.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Why am I not surprised?”

He’s not a difficult man to desire, with pretty curls and brooding eyes and a generous mouth. Sansa imagines his good looks and warrior’s physique—all strong muscles and cut, lean lines—would have been a welcome change from the fat, balding middle aged men who often frequented whorehouses. There’s something alluring about his darkness too, the heady and intoxicating air he carries with him. Nobody knew that he was a secret prince—but he held himself like one anyway. She imagines those girls did not find it a chore to get on their knees for the Lord Commander.

“Where did you journey to, Moles Town?”

“Aye,” he says, “but it was some time ago. I wouldn’t do it again.”

She pauses, her brow arching in a silent question. It’s the closest she’ll get to a profession of commitment, that it is only _her_ bed he steals to at night.

“Why did you?” she asks, “ _when_ did you?”

“Not before I was murdered,” he says evenly, so blunt it still makes her flinch, “I would never. I was a good boy.”

She rolls her eyes again at his teasing smirk and then he’s continuing.

“ _After…_ ” he starts, his tone dropping a note, “well, I told you there was nothing. I _felt_ nothing for a long time. There was just this… gaping, black hole… so I tried to fill it,” he gently takes her fingers and places them over a curved scar on his side, “I did this to myself…” he traces her fingers over a circular burn mark then, “…and this. I tried to find what I was looking for in the edge of a blade, or the bottom of a tankard, or between a woman’s thighs.”

Her fingers drift lightly over his scars, a sharp pang of sympathy washing over her. She hates that he did that to himself, that he hurt himself. She hates that he’s so broken and that he doesn’t seem to be getting any better.

“Did it work?” she asks quietly. She knows the answer.

His mouth twitches but it’s not the sarcastic, teasing smirk she’s grown used to. It’s not the cold, callous one she sometimes sees.

It’s a sad, melancholy sort of smile.

“No.”

She glances at him again, tries to make her eyes look soft.

“You have me now,” she says, “and Rickon, Bran and Arya.”

“Aye,” he says, “I haven’t been with another woman since before you arrived—and I won’t.”

She nods, her fingers trailing down to his muscular thigh.

“I could help you feel things.”

She says—he laughs.

He leans his weight on his left forearm as his other hand trails down her body. His fingers slip between her thighs and he firmly cups her mound.

“Aye, am I to find my salvation here then?”

She shivers, his fingers slick and slippery wet as they lazily stroke her cunt. 

“If you wish,” she husks, her voice thick with desire, “or my mouth, _maybe_ my arse… if you ask nicely.”

His eyes flash, delighted.

“I knew you’d come around.”

She hums, her mind sparking with a devious idea. He draws his hand back to rest on both forearms again. She walks her fingers up his thigh, grazing his cock which twitches with interest.

He watches her, heated and curious, as she slowly wraps her hand around his soft member. It swells and hardens under her touch and she coaxes it until he’s standing at a full erection. She rubs him with her palm, turning her hand so her fingernails graze his balls. She can feel them pull tight against his body, the little moan he releases as they churn with seed.

Her eyes flicker to his face when he makes the noise.

He’s still watching her, his eyes calm but dark.

“Or perhaps _I’ll_ fuck _you_ ,” she says, her cheeks blazing at her own brazenness.

His head rolls back with a little groan. His cock twitches in her hand, hot and hard, precum oozing from the tip. _He likes that_ , she thinks with a smirk.

“Aye, and how do you propose to do that?” his breath is quicker, harsher. 

Her hand grips his length, her fist twisting over it. She squeezes the tip, swipes her thumb over his weeping slit and makes him grunt. She uses it as lubrication, easing the path of her hand. She squeezes him at the base, traces the thick vein that runs from root to tip, and he _throbs_ for her. She feels desired; she feels powerful.

“With my fingers,” she dips down to plant a kiss on the side of his neck. She feels the corded muscles of his throat jump under her lips. “My mouth, my tongue…”

He lets out a choked sound—half a laugh, half a groan.

“A bastard’s arse is no place for a highborn lady’s tongue.”

Her skin bursts into heat at the dirty words.

“You’re not a bastard,” she reminds him for he keeps forgetting, “you’re my secret prince.”

His smirk melts and falters when she strokes him harder. 

“Yours?”

“Yes,” she says, _growls_ , “mine.”

His hand flies to hers, wrapping around it, guiding her movements. His chin tips down so he can watch them stroke his erection together, the engorged head peeking from their fists with every downward stroke. He guides the pace, shows her how to touch him, where to squeeze. He coaxes her hand faster—jerky, rough tugs that send an aching throb pulsing through her cunt.

“Harder,” he pants, his top lip curling, as he lets her hand go and tips his head back.

The strong muscles of his abdomen twitch, his breath falling in staggered, ragged gasps. His thick arms tremble under the strain, his teeth gritted. He looks like a tightly coiled spring, a restrained animal ready to pounce. 

“You like this, don’t you?” she whispers, a little lost to madness. She pumps his length harder as her nose grazes his neck, "you like giving me control, just for a little while. You want me to suck you. You want me to hold you down and ride you until your eyes roll. You want my _pretty highborn mouth_ on you, tonguing your arse. Don’t you? Tell me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bites out instead, a groan rolling from his chest.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” he hisses, “I want your mouth on me.”

Heat licks between her thighs like a tongue.

His hard length spasms in her hand. His body is growing taut, his muscles growing tense and flushed and veiny under the strain.

“You want to know what it’s like,” she whispers heatedly, “what you turned a blind eye to when you were Lord Commander. Your men… the filthy things they did to each other in the dark of night. You want to know what it’s like to be filled.”

_“Gods—”_

“No, no gods,” she says calmly, “there’s only me.”

The noise he makes is more wolf than man.

“I’m close,” he pants, and grabs for her hand, “give me your cunt.”

“Manners,” she tuts, but mounts him anyway.

“Seems you like it too,” he says raggedly as she drags her slit across his swollen cock, “you’re fucking soaked, dirty girl.”

She moans, rolling her hips, and glances down to see his cock splitting her lower lips. The head rubs against her hard clit and makes her shudder. She leans between their bodies and positions him at her dripping entrance.

“That’s it,” he urges through gritted teeth, “fuck me.”

She does.

She sinks down onto him, revelling in his low hiss. She’s worked herself up too much to go slow, her body on fire. She rides him hard and fast, the way she’d ride a horse, and it feels like the blunt head of his cock is kissing her womb.

“You’re so deep,” she moans.

He grunts, his fingers biting at her waist. He guides her up and down his cock, his dark eyes focused on where they join. He watches his length drive in and out of her, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Suddenly, he rears up, gathering her in his arms. Her gasp melts into a moan as she buries her face in his neck and holds on tight. She can feel his curls against her, damp from sweat and bathwater. It seems pointless now—they’ll have to bathe again—but she’s grateful for it when his fingers slide behind her and tap at her puckered rosebud.

She shies away, tensing. His other hand wraps around the auburn hair at her nape, gently tugging it. His mouth finds her ear.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises huskily, tracing a shudder down her spine, “don’t I always make you feel good?”

Her jaw is slack as she nods, her nails digging into the firm muscles of his shoulder blades.

“Good girl,” he coos, then brings the fingers to her mouth and slips them inside. She curls her tongue around the digits, wetting them, and then he puts his hand behind them again and slowly pushes his middle finger into the tight ring of muscle.

She exhales shakily, her lips brushing his. She feels full, the extra penetration and naughtiness of it driving her wild. She kisses him, swallows his grunt of surprise, sweeps her tongue inside his mouth. He sucks it, slick and slippery wet, and nips at her bottom lip like a wolf when she pulls away.

“Harder,” she begs, adjusting to the finger, fucking herself on his cock.

“You’re such a good girl,” he purrs, kissing her cheek. She loves the praise. "My good, filthy girl. Let me hear you. Let _them_ hear you. Let them all hear how their lady loves having her holes stuffed.”

“Fuck,” she cries out, her thighs trembling. She can feel her ass pulsing around his finger, drawing him deeper inside. He fucks her harder with the digit, her own fingers snaking between them to flick at her clit. The fantasy of what his cock will feel like plunging inside her arse throws her over the edge. 

She comes with a gush, soaking her fingers, her cunt and ass tightening around him. He snarls like a wolf as her entrances milk him, pulling his seed from him. He comes inside her, uncaring of the consequences, filling her in hot spurts until he’s empty.

She winces when she lifts off him and his softening member slips out of her.

She listens to the birds chirping in the trees outside, as they both come back down to earth.

“What shall we do today?” she asks after a few minutes, the back of her hand slung over her forehead. Her breathing is still harsh and staggered.

His reply is easy and disconcertingly casual.

“I was thinking we might kill Petyr Baelish.”

Sansa stills, her eyes flashing to him.

“Really? Today?”

He clicks his tongue.

“We’ll give him a trial first,” he says evenly—she notices he doesn’t preface it with _fair—_ and then his mouth is curving into a cruel smirk again, “I’m not an _animal._ "  
  


* * *

  
That very afternoon, Baelish reminds her why she will never shed a tear for him.

He finds her in the crypts, lighting a candle for her mother. Her bones aren’t here, but Sansa ensured a statue was nonetheless. She wanted her to have a place next to father, the man she loved so dearly.

Tomorrow, Sansa thinks she’ll bring Rickon to see her. She hopes it’ll stir his memory. Her eyes flicker to the statue of Robb, so regal next to father. A stone Greywind lies curled at his feet, as loyal a companion in death as he was in life.

The thought of what they did to Robb makes her shudder.

Baelish comes. He says her mother would be proud of the woman she’s become. Sansa smiles wryly and says she doubts it. Then, his tone changes, slipping into that voice he uses for his manipulations, when he’s weaving a web. She knows it well. In the flickering half-candlelight, he puts his hand on her. He tells her she should be Queen, not only of the North, but the Seven Kingdoms in their entirety—and he says he should be her King.

He says he’ll look after her, the way her bastard half-brother can’t. He hints that he knows more than he’s letting on, makes comments about _unnatural inclinations_ and _bastard blood._ She doesn’t think he knows about Jon’s heritage, but he knows something is going on. 

He tries to kiss her. His breath is warm and sickly sweet. The hand he has on her waist slips down, down, down—until his palm is cupping her ass.

“Oh my dear Lord Baelish…” Sansa’s lips curl into a wry, dangerous grin and she whispers, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved your comments on the last chapter like -- Bran telling them to show some restraint and them just going at it😂 oh well, I'm digging writing Dark Jon, I like the vibe, so there'll probably be a lot more smut to come...


	21. Chapter 21

  
  


* * *

“My apologies, my lady,” Baelish croons, removing his hand from her immediately. He takes a step back, his face half bathed in candlelight, “I have overstepped myself.”

Sansa bites back her snarl, forces herself to relax, to play it smart. She has learned from him after-all, learned from the best, and she can’t go back now.

“Yes, you have,” she says coolly, “and you should not speak ill of Jon. Your sins may soon become answerable to him.”

“You think so?” Baelish’s voice is just as calm and unaffected—he’s been playing the game a lot longer than she has, after-all, “forgive me, what power does he have? A fine military man and commander, I will give him that. But what else? Happily, there are not one but _four_ Starks in Winterfell now. Why should the Lords rally behind Ned Stark’s bastard, rather than one of his two trueborn sons? Why should they not rally behind _you_?”

Sansa narrows her eyes. She knows what he’s doing, what very particular insecurity he’s trying to chip away at. 

But she won't turn against Jon, not now. They’re stronger together than they are apart—and he can be cruel and unpredictable, but she is learning how to manage him. She has her own kind of power, outside of the archaic titles awarded by stubborn northerners who are incapable of change. She knows how her world works, has spent her entire life in the shadow of men who do not. Men who underestimate her.

“And _you,_ I suppose?” she says dryly, “this pretty vision you have for yourself… it ends with you on the Iron Throne and me by your side, does it not? But, by your own reasoning, should _I_ not be the one on that ugly chair, with _you_ by _my_ side? As you like to remind me, _I_ have the name. My name, my blood, my family… far more highborn than yours. _You,_ from a seat in an old flint tower, commanding no more than a few stony acres on the smallest of the Fingers. I was too young and stupid to see it back then, but _you_ need _me_ , Lord Baelish. Not the other way around. You always have.”

His mouth curves into a small but tense smile.

“I don’t _need_ you, Sansa,” he says, “I _want_ you. I want us to build and thrive together. I want to protect you.”

“I’m Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she replies, “and I’m home. What could I possibly need protecting from?”

He doesn’t skirt around the issue.

“Jon,” he says clearly, one brow arched unimpressed, “the way he looks at you… it’s not how a brother looks at a sister. Bastards are borne of lust, they can’t control themselves, and I fear for your virtue.”

“My virtue?” she repeats with a humourless laugh, “Lord Baelish, I lost that when you sold me to Ramsay Bolton.”

He flinches ever so slightly, a flicker of discomfort penetrating that slippery mask.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to spin another lie, when Brienne’s heavy steps penetrate the silence.

“Lady Sansa, the Lord Commander—” she shakes her head, as though to correct herself, “—your brother… he is holding a meeting with the Lords. He is asking for you.”

Sansa arches a brow, her gaze sliding from her friend to Littlefinger and back again.

“You too, Lord Baelish,” Brienne adds in a grumble before turning on her heel.

Sansa follows her, the click of Lord Baelish’s heels trailing behind.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa enters the Great Hall, sinking quietly into the chair next to Jon as he stands and speaks to the northern Lords.

Rickon sits in Bran’s lap. He’s learning and growing every day, forging a connection with his siblings, and something of his bond with his closest brother has stuck. He likes to ride around in Bran’s chair, but today, he stays still. Arya sits on the other side, quietly murmuring to him, and Sansa still can’t quite believe they’re all together like this.

Lyanna Mormont is the only other person in the hall standing, and she speaks passionately.

“I don’t care if he’s a bastard,” she’s saying, her eyes fierce, “Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. We know no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.”

Sansa’s gaze flits to Jon, who is watching it all unfold with curious eyes.

Lyanna sits and Lord Manderly stands to replace her.

He speaks about his fear and regret over the battle with Ramsay, over his sons dying for a lost cause and why he didn’t fight. He apologises, pledges himself to Jon, and ends his speech with another rallying cry of " _King in the North"._

Lord Cerwyn and Glover pledge themselves next, the former dropping to a knee before his sword, and the latter raising it in the air.

“And Arya, too,” Lyanna Mormont speaks again, her tone passionate for another warrior girl so much like herself, “she avenged the Red Wedding. And Lady Sansa,” her eyes turn to Yohn Royce, “your men came for _her._ ”

Royce nods and stands.

“They did,” he says, “the Knights of the Vale are yours, my Lady.”

The sisters share a look, heavy and significant. The Starks hold Winterfell again, that much is clear, and then a rumbling chorus cry of _King in the North!_ fills the hall.

It’s a title he could never _dream_ he’d have, but still, Jon’s eyes are cool and calm as they drag from northern Lord to northern Lord. In the corner, Davos is smiling and Tormund is smirking, tipping a brow and a cup of ale to his kneeler friend. Melisandre and Littlefinger watch calmly too, though the latter’s expression shows a crack of weakness. Anger.

When the chanting and cheering has died down, Jon slowly turns his head and tips his chin down to look at Sansa.

“And what do you think, sister?” he asks quietly, only for her to hear. She thinks he uses their old connection partly in-case anyone’s listening, mostly because he gets off on it, “of me stealing your trueborn brothers’ birth-rights. Lady Catelyn will be turning in her grave.”

She almost rolls her eyes. He doesn’t care about that; he _likes_ that.

She turns to Bran, who is watching them with that calm, stoic expression, and then to Rickon, who doesn’t understand at all.

“Until you have children of your own, Bran can be your heir,” she says, though the thought of him taking a wife who will bear him sons and daughters makes her feel a little ill, “besides, he doesn’t want it. Rickon, as much as he’s getting better, is still too young and frail. You heard them—you’re the King they chose.”

“And you?”

She stills, her eyes almost imperceptibly flickering to Littlefinger again.

She remembers the words she had spoken in the crypts.

_But, by your own reasoning, should I not be the one on that ugly chair, with you by my side?_

Perhaps the same should apply; perhaps she should be Queen. After-all, where would Jon be without the Vale’s two thousand men? Probably back in the same grave they’d dragged him from. And yet, she knows she still has power here, far more than she would have with Littlefinger. She knows she can be useful.

With a dark desire swirling inside her, she also knows there’s more than one way to become Queen. She looks at Jon again and imagines him waiting for her in the Godswood, imagines him draping a cloak of Stark _and_ Targaryen colours over her.

She imagines whispering those words in the shadow of the Weirwood tree—

_“I am his and he is mine.”_

—because she is.

“I will stand with you,” she says, “as the Lady of Winterfell. We will do it together.”

 _Or if we told them who you really are,_ she thinks darkly, _I could be your Queen._

He nods, then drags his attention back to the room.

“Lord Baelish,” he says then, his tone low and commanding, “will you step forward please?”

Sansa watches as panic momentarily flashes across Littlefinger’s face. He does as commanded, coming to stand before the table with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, my Lord?” he asks, before he quirks a brow, “or is it your Grace now?”

Jon’s gaze is steely and indifferent.

“I don’t care what you call me."

Littlefinger’s jaw ticks. Sansa imagines it must irritate him to no end that Jon is so dismissive of the power he himself has sought his entire life.

“There are some matters we wish to discuss with you,” Jon says and Sansa realises this is it. His tribunal, his reckoning… Jon will give it to him.

Suddenly, she doesn’t want it. Not now, not here. She wants it to be more personal, not in-front of dozens of men who have no idea about him, what he’s done.

“But not here,” Sansa says before Jon can continue. She keeps her gaze on Littlefinger, but feels the sting of Jon’s surprised eyes on her.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks heatedly under his breath, “I _said_ we would give him his trial.”

Sansa remains resolute, holding eye contact.

“And we will.”  
  


* * *

  
“Are you sure about this?”

Jon’s voice whistles through the Godswood, low and deep through the branches of the Weirwood tree.

Sansa nods.

“I want him to see,” she husks, drawing a finger down his chest, “I want him to _know._ ”

Jon smirks. It’s something dangerous, something dark, then he’s pushing her against the tree.

His hands cup her face and he kisses her.

She tastes him, smoke and spice and ale, and then she hears footsteps pad on freshly fallen snow.

“He’s here,” she whispers against his mouth, “it’s time.”

A hum rumbles from his chest. She feels his mouth curve against hers. He kisses her again and spreads her legs, rutting against her.

As she catches a glimpse of Petyr Baelish in the distance, they both slip into character.

Jon shifts his thigh between her legs, pressing her against the aged bark of the tree.

“And then we’ll marry right here in the Godswood,” he says, loud enough for Baelish to hear.

She moans, tipping her head back and threading her fingers through his black curls.

“Yes,” she breathes.

“I’ll take you just like this.”

“Yes.”

He shifts his thigh, pressing up and grinding against her cunt.

“You’ll be my wife. You’ll be my Queen.”

_“Yes.”_

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep you from me,” his voice is a snarl, more wolf than man, and she’s not sure he’s acting anymore.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Sansa says then, her eyes slowly opening to stare directly at Littlefinger as Jon mouths at her jaw, “Lord Baelish.”

Baelish’s eyes are wide, his face deathly pale, as he stares at the scene in-front of him.

His eyes slide to the side, as though trying to calculate how he can escape. His boots crunch on the snow as he takes a slow step back.

Jon lets her go, taking a step back himself to stand next to the tree. He leans against it, his arms crossed casually over his chest.

Sansa readjusts herself, calmly brushing her hands over her skirts. Then, she clasps them in-front of her.

“I appreciate this isn’t what you were expecting when I asked you to meet me here,” she says, taking a step towards him. She feels another cheap thrill at the way he steps back again.

“Sansa, I—” she watches the movement of his throat as he struggles for the words, “—I don’t understand.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” she says, tipping her head to the side, “which is odd, as I thought you knew everything.”

He shakes his head, his mouth opening and closing stupidly.

“You were right about some things, though,” she says, walking until they’re toe to toe, “Jon doesn’t look at me like a brother looks at a sister… but that’s because he’s _not_ my brother.”

Baelish’s confused eyes flit from her to Jon behind her, still leaning against the tree.

“Half-brother…” he says weakly.

“No,” she whispers with a little shake of her head, “not that either. He’s the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen and my aunt, Lyanna Stark.”

Baelish’s eyes widen before they fall shut in defeat. A heavy sort of resignation settles over his features, as though he knows she wouldn’t be revealing this if he could tell anyone else, that he won't have the chance to. He won't make it through the night. She leans in, drunk on power, on what she perceives as righteous justice. Her mouth hovers by his ear.

“He is the rightful heir to that throne you covet.”

He shakes his head, reaching for her. She quickly steps back, despising his touch.

“Sansa, you don’t have to do this,” he tries.

“You know why I’m doing it though, don’t you?” she says, _“this_ is your trial. You betrayed my father and got him killed. Bran told me what you did. You set off a chain of events, pitting sister against sister, manipulating everyone. You sold me to the Bolton’s.”

His face blanches, his eyes becoming glassy. Behind her, she hears Jon take a step.

“I loved you,” Baelish says, his voice hoarse, “I love you still.”

The words make her feel ill.

“And yet you betrayed me.”

His eyes fall shut again.

“The Knights of the Vale—”

“—are loyal to me,” Sansa interrupts his next excuse before he can make it, “you heard Lord Royce.”

“They’ll never accept you,” Baelish snarls then, one last flare of fire, a desperation to survive, “they think you brother and sister.”

“We’re not brother and sister.”

“Then it’s even worse,” he seethes, “the north remembers, isn’t that what you all bleat on about? Northerners remember what happened the last time a Targaryen was on the throne. They will never trust him, never accept him. That crown will be ripped away.”

Sansa shrugs, not letting his words penetrate her.

“Either way,” she starts, then beckons Jon forward, “you won’t be around to see it.”

She opens his mouth again but his last plea falls from his lips in a bloody gurgle as Jon thrusts a blade into the side of his throat.

Sansa blinks as warm blood splatters over her face like rain.

Baelish clutches at his neck, blood spewing between his fingers and running from his mouth in a horrible gargling sound. He staggers, eyes wide and panicked, before he falls to the ground. The snow turns crimson around him as he twitches and dies.

Silence settles over the Godswood, intense and heavy.

Sansa blinks again, wiping the blood out of her eyes. She can feel it clinging to her eyelashes, sticky and warm on her skin. She leans down, her knees sinking into the bloody snow, as her hands touch Baelish’s neck. Her mind is blank, empty, as she swipes her fingers across the broken skin, collecting the blood until her hands are covered.

She stands again, blood running from her fingertips and dripping crimson rubies into the snow.

Jon is looking at her, his head tipped to the side casually—like he hasn’t just murdered a man, like his face isn’t also covered in splatters of blood.

Sansa’s blood feels rich, a rush shuddering down her spine. She feels the way she did when Ramsay died, power thrumming through her. She feels superior. She feels desire. She feels lust.

Her chest is heaving as she stares at him, her pale eyes darkening.

She stares at him for one, two, three seconds—and then she pounces.

He catches her.

She kisses him brutally, savagely, roughly. It’s all tongues and teeth as they rip at each other’s clothes. Before, he was all smoke and spice—now she can taste the sharp, metallic tang of Baelish’s blood. It should disgust her. It doesn’t.

He rips his mouth away to kiss her neck, yanking her dress down her body. He kisses every new inch of exposed skin, his hands streaking bloody fingerprints. She gasps, her breath casting billowy clouds in the cold night air. His fingers pinch a dusty rose nipple, making her growl, and then she pushes him down into the snow.

He lands with a grunt, right next to Baelish’s body.

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, a flash of white as she bites it. She straddles his body and watches him for a moment, everything slowing. She runs her hand over his face, feels the grit of his bloody beard under her fingertips. She just looks at him, strong and deadly and bloody for her, and feels a surge of something that used to be love.

He’s thrown the heavy furs off his shoulders, but she doesn’t bother with any of his other clothes. He doesn’t bother removing her smallclothes. She just reaches into his breeches and gives his erection a few steady pumps. He hisses through his teeth, already ready for her.

She pushes her smallclothes to the side and sinks down onto him.

She rides him hard and fast, his hands leaving bloody palm prints over her breasts. She squeezes the hands that are covering them, tossing her head back. One of those hands snakes between their bodies, his thumb rubbing circles on her clit.

It’s frantic and fast, their blood up and raging from the kill. She cries out when he rears up with a growl and flips them over. He spreads her legs wider and resumes his brutal pace, fucking her into the bloody snow.

It’s cold and wet, but she’s burning—on _fire._

She rakes her nails down his back, makes him hiss and growl again. He pulls out, the head of his cock kissing her clit, before he pushes back in again to the hilt. He pounds into her, hard and fast, ripping moan after moan from her lips.

She turns her head and sees Baelish’s glassy eyes staring back at her.

She comes with a scream that echoes through the Godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhhh that happened! I've decided to end this at chapter 23, guys.


End file.
